


Flawed and Fair

by tehta



Series: The Theban Band of Gondolin (Size: Two) [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action/Adventure, Giant Spiders, Gondolin, Humor, M/M, Unnatural Desires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 18:50:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 33,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/690278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tehta/pseuds/tehta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Aredhel leaves Gondolin, Ecthelion is part of her escort. During the journey, he will have to deal with Finwe's grandchild, spitting Sindar, orcs, unlight, giant spiders -- and his unnatural feelings for Glorfindel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Victims of Lorien

Ecthelion hated Glorfindel.

He hated Glorfindel's easy charm, his ready laugh, his air of entitlement and serenity. Above all, he hated Glorfindel's golden beauty, so rare on this side of the Great Sea. That shining hair was a particular irritant. For one, it was overrated: he had heard it compared to sunlight, when, in reality, at night it was barely brighter than a candle flame. And then, it was a serious safety risk: Glorfindel would insist on wearing it unbound even when dressed for battle, ignoring Ecthelion's cautionary tales of hunters whose free-flowing hair got caught on something at the worst possible moment.

Ecthelion hated Glorfindel because there was no real reason to hate him. Because he was brave, and kind, and neither shallow nor pretentious. Because he got up early and did all his work without complaint, but still managed to sympathize with the work-related complaints of others. And because, in spite of all his obvious charms and graces, and in spite of all that ridiculous hair, he was a competent warrior and leader of men.

And then, Ecthelion hated Glorfindel because he was so universally loved. It wasn't as if people did not love Ecthelion also, but that love was of a respectful, remote kind. He was admired as a tough but reasonable captain, and as an unusually accomplished singer. Glorfindel was loved on a personal level. Complete strangers would find it quite natural to wish him a happy begetting day, right there in the street. Ecthelion had heard random people discussing his beauty and his warmth as if they were perfectly acceptable topics of general conversation, matters of shared interest.

Ecthelion, meanwhile, wished Glorfindel gone, gone and forgotten. Daily, hourly, he longed to recover his peace of mind, to finally stop counting Glorfindel's many fine qualities. For the true reason why Ecthelion hated Glorfindel, a fine man he might so easily have come to love as a brother, was that Glorfindel was perfect, while Ecthelion himself was flawed through and through. It did not help that few were aware of his flaws, nowadays; Ecthelion himself knew the wrongness was still there, and he hated Glorfindel for throwing it into such sharp relief with every graceful gesture, every movement of his golden head.

It was not jealousy. That would have been a natural response to all those perfections, slightly dishonourable, perhaps, but nowhere near as shameful as the truth. Still, Ecthelion did not want to be suspected of so petty a feeling, and so he worked hard to keep his hatred hidden. He worked even harder to keep it going. He needed it: his dreams made that clear. For, when Ecthelion dreamt, his loathing would abandon him and he would spend time with Glorfindel quite happily. Sometimes, they would simply feast together, without restraint, or engage in elaborate swordplay, or ride difficult, spirited horses. Innocent pleasures, all—but Ecthelion was subtle enough to read the meanings behind them. Worse were the dreams that needed no interpretation. Ecthelion cursed the public baths of Gondolin, where a warrior was expected to sit beside his peers. Without all the information his unwilling mind had picked up there, his dreams would never have been so maddeningly and verifiably accurate, at least in their surface details.

 

 

One morning Ecthelion woke up feeling quite drained after a vivid dream in which Glorfindel had taken a poisoned arrow to the upper thigh. It had fallen to Ecthelion to suck the venom from the wound, and then to dig for the arrow with his dagger. Quite vigorously. It was a new dream, and its combination of realism and blatant allusion had proved very potent. Really, the best thing that could be said about it was that it had not been one of his Fingon and Maedhros fantasies. He did not know why the story of that cliffside rescue should have sounded such a resonant note within him; all he knew was that Glorfindel's hair would sometimes take on a red tinge in the evening sunlight, and that, outside of his dreams, he had never seen Glorfindel helpless, or disheveled, or even visibly pained—which was just as well, since the merest thought of it could make him as hard as the rock beneath the city.

It was all wrong, in so many ways. For one unwed to be haunted by desire was bad enough, but to be haunted thus by unnatural desire—it was the most spectacular failure of will and character imaginable. Once upon a time, Ecthelion had believed that the Valar must be weeping for him, but then he had remembered that they—well Nienna, anyway—wept mostly in compassion, and that he deserved none. Now he imagined them angry and disgusted at the way his weakness had, at times, conquered both his body and his mind.

Although, really, one might have expected Lorien to have done something about the dreams by now. For one, they were starting to interfere with Ecthelion's ability to perform the tasks required of a Lord of the Guard.

On the day after the poisoned-arrow dream, Ecthelion began his work feeling rather peevish and disagreeable—but determined to keep his temper. If he could not fix his great flaw, he would at least attempt to be the best man he could be in lesser ways. He would be calm and fair.

It did not matter that the night shift had reduced the guard room to an unusable mess, or that his favourite sword was inexplicably missing, or that the weekly rota sheet appeared to have been filled in entirely at random, and then by someone with only a marginal understanding of basic spelling and no common sense. This unknown individual had actually assigned something called a "hoarse partol" to the White Tower. Since there weren't enough raspy-voiced men in the guard to form a whole patrol, Ecthelion had to assume that this was to be the mounted patrol that normally roamed the larger squares. He had the feeling that getting the horses back down the tower stairs would somehow become his responsibility.

"So, the night shift has struck again," said Glorfindel.

That was all Ecthelion needed. What was Glorfindel doing in the guard room? He was off duty. It was right there on the rota sheet: "Off duty: Lard Glorf. of Flour", sounding like a cryptic recipe for bad cake. And yet, there he was in the doorway, and the guards were beaming at him even before he had walked into the room and offered to help them clear up the mess.

Ecthelion would not beam. He would not wonder whether Glorfindel was there to talk to him, would do nothing to encourage his already overenthusiastic friendship. Instead, he bent over his sheet. Still, he could not help sneaking enough brief glances to see Glorfindel drop to his knees and start cleaning out the fireplace. Such shameless gallantry infuriated Ecthelion. What was even more annoying was that he just knew that, although the fireplace was gloomy with soot, Glorfindel was not going to get dirty—except perhaps for some charming, small facial smudge. Even though he was now prodding the ashes with a poker.

No, not with a poker. With Ecthelion's favourite orc-slaying sword.

Ecthelion tried to count to twelve, but he had only reached five when he found himself on his feet and walking towards the fireplace. Once there, he loomed over Glorfindel, hand outstretched.

"My sword," he said.

"Excuse me?" Glorfindel looked up at him, all courtesy and helpfulness. There was a small, dark spot on his left cheek.

Wordlessly, Ecthelion grabbed for the weapon and drew it to his side with a wide flourish, spraying soot all around: onto the freshly swept floor, as well as onto Glorfindel's fancy green cloak. The symbolism was too amateurishly obvious, too bitter to handle with grace. Shaken, he stalked into his private office, where the table was covered with untallied weapon purchase slips. Sorting through them would be a tedious, unrewarding task—just the thing to help him calm down. He could clean his sullied blade later. He sat down and exchanged the sword for a pen.

"Ecthelion."

So Glorfindel had decided to follow him and smooth things over. How typical of him.

"I am sorry about your sword," Glorfindel said.

"Don't be." Ecthelion glanced up. "I am the one who should be apologizing, for my rudeness. And for the dirt on your cloak. My apologies. I do know it was not your fault." He looked back down at the paperwork.

"Well, no, it was not my fault," said Glorfindel. "But... there is something else, is there not? You seem unhappy with me, somehow. I have been noticing it for some time."

Ecthelion searched for a reasonable response. "You have done nothing. I am a disagreeable sort."

"You are a singer, with an artist's temperament, that is true," said Glorfindel, annoying Ecthelion, who always thought of himself as a warrior first. "But I have never seen you treat anyone else unfairly. I know I must have offended you. Please, tell me how, so that I do not repeat the offense. Let me make amends."

He was leaning forward on the table by then, his hair falling forward past his ears, catching the morning sun. I have had this dream, Ecthelion thought. It ended here on this table, with all the paperwork well and truly ruined. He was very grateful for the concealment the desk afforded, but he hated Glorfindel for making him need it.

"I told you it is nothing. Surely you cannot expect every single person in the city to love you?"

Glorfindel shifted uncomfortably, no doubt shocked by the discourtesy of the question. And yet he remained in the room. "You do not love me, that is clear. But will you not tell me why?"

Asked a third time, Ecthelion could think of no plausible excuse. He would have to repel Glorfindel in some other way. "You will not like my answer," he said.

"I can take it, whatever it is."

Ecthelion fought down a bitter smile at the irony of that statement. "Well, then, the truth is this: I am jealous of you. You are well-loved, an image of perfection. You see, I am a petty sort, that is all. Nothing can be done about it."

"Do not be ridiculous. You are not petty, and clearly have no reason to be jealous. I expect that you are simply too courteous to admit that you find me unbearably smug. A few people do seem to feel that way."

Ecthelion stared at Glorfindel. The expression on his face was knowing. Smug, even.

"In reality, I am well aware of my many flaws," he said.

"Oh, good." Ecthelion looked back down and shuffled the papers.

"You do not believe me? Truly, I am." Glorfindel stood up very straight, as if preparing to deliver a formal recitation. "To begin with, I am somewhat vain. You yourself have often commented on my obsession with my hair. Of course, it is rather nice hair."

He paused to draw a strand through his fingers. Ecthelion watched it change colour as it moved between sun and shade: bright polished gold to ancient gold, the colour of treasure.

"Also, I enjoy being liked far too much," said Glorfindel. "Indeed, I sometimes find myself wondering what course of action would make me more likeable, instead of what course of action would be right. And then, there is my greed. It is not that I like money, but I do enjoy surrounding myself with the beautiful things it can buy. I have never spent my own salary on good equipment for my poorer soldiers, the way you have." He gave Ecthelion a look so full of warm admiration that Ecthelion's stomach turned. Or perhaps it was his heart that fluttered. At any rate, something moved around inside him: whichever organ is in charge of horribly inappropriate emotion.

"I also enjoy the sensual pleasures more than is seemly."

Glorfindel's voice drew Ecthelion away from the contemplation of his organs. Then the actual words hit him. He started. Though his mouth opened, he could think of nothing to say.

"It is true! I love wine and rich food. Really, I am quite certain that a natural ascetic like yourself would be utterly disgusted by the amount I can consume when out on the town—"

"I am not a natural ascetic."

"But of course you are. Everyone knows it. You do not care about your food at all, and as for the other desires of the body... I would be very surprised if you had ever had any problems with... lustful feelings... even in your early youth."

Again, words eluded Ecthelion.

"See? I am right!" said Glorfindel. "I, meanwhile—" His face reddened slightly. He turned to look out the window. "Let us just say that I sometimes have to concentrate very hard so as not to utterly disgrace myself. Virtue does not come easily to me. These strange ideas seem to just seep into my mind at the least suitable moments. Very strange ideas. I suspect they are not even physically possible."

He was silent for a moment. Since his eyes were averted, Ecthelion felt free to stare at him just as much as he liked. He hated the way the blush only made Glorfindel look better: healthier and brighter. His lips were reddened and parted slightly. It was enough to give a deeply flawed man his own ideas. Ones he knew to be physically possible.

"But I cannot tell you more. You would be utterly shocked," Glorfindel concluded.

"Try me," Ecthelion almost replied. But then he realized he did not want to hear any sort of nonsense about Idril or Aredhel or whatever other beautiful highborn maiden had captured Glorfindel's imagination. He did not want her appearing in his dreams, perhaps even—knowing Lorien's usual style—joining in. "Then, by all means, let us not shock me," he said instead.

"Right." Glorfindel collected himself. "But please do keep in mind that I have impure thoughts. And dreams. Indeed, I sometimes wonder just what Lorien is thinking."

This question was so intimately familiar to Ecthelion that, momentarily, he found Glorfindel's attempts to blacken his own name rather endearing. He had to remind himself that one of the reasons he hated the self-obsessed twit was that he was so intrinsically likeable.

"But enough about that," the twit was saying. "I also—"

There was a timely knock on the door.

"Come in," Ecthelion called.

Elemmakil, one of his captains, entered and bowed.

"Lord Glorfindel! I am so glad to find you at last—King Turgon has just sent word that he wants to speak to you, at your earliest convenience."

Ecthelion's first thought was of the patrol in the White Tower. Perhaps Turgon had decided that the horses might find Glorfindel's presence soothing, as they undoubtedly would.

"King Turgon?" asked Glorfindel. "Why? What has happened?"

"The message did not say." Elemmakil fidgeted. He glanced from his own trusted captain to Glorfindel, who was trusted by all, and his guardsman's stance relaxed slightly. "The messenger, however, said that the Lady Aredhel wishes to leave the city and visit her other brother. And that she has requested Lord Glorfindel's presence in her honour guard."

Glorfindel's eyes widened. To Ecthelion, also, the first part of the explanation had come as an utter shock. No one had left the city in centuries. The second part, however, sounded just right: for who was more suitable for an honour guard than Glorfindel, even with all his self-confessed flaws?

It was only when he was alone again that Ecthelion realized that he was about to get his wish: a Glorfindel-free life. The thought slipped past his defenses and hit him like a sword-hilt to the stomach.


	2. A Small Gathering

Ecthelion was busy. Happily busy. There was just so much to do. Lady Aredhel's impeding departure called for a reorganization of Palace security—possibly the whole guard, really, since she was taking one of its valued leaders with her, but he would not think about that now: deciphering the hastily-scrawled rota sheet left behind by the night watch was a far more urgent matter. Yes, Ecthelion was certainly very busy. And fortunate. Soon, he would finally be able to focus on his work without dreading the inevitable distractions.

He would not have to worry about anyone showing up at the training grounds with a fascinating new weapon, and insisting that they try it out together. And then, he would not have any cause to rue the Guard's wardrobe-protecting policy of fighting shirtless when trying out new techniques. He would not have to force his eyes to stay focused on his opponent's feet, eyes, or blade, instead of letting them drift to all points of interest in between. Certainly, he would not feel tempted to throw down his weapon and try his luck at wrestling. Or to give a completely inappropriate response when a sparring partner, bare torso flushed with exertion, walked right up to him and asked for help with his grip.

Ecthelion realized that he had spent the last few minutes staring at the wall where the officers of the Guard were listed. He had updated it only a few hours ago, and already he was wondering when he would be able to return that one name to its rightful place. Given how incredibly fortunate he was, his inability to concentrate on urgent business irritated him greatly. He decided to get help, with the cryptic sheet, at least—and there was always a chance that talking to a friend would help him clear his mind of unproductive thoughts.

After a quick word with the men on duty, he walked out of the guardhouse and into the streets of the city. It was midday, and sunny. The fountains were glittering with light, their music a subtle counterpoint to the daily hum of voices. As Ecthelion approached the eastern market, the hum turned into a chorus of shouts, drowning out the falling water. He crossed the market and took a staircase up onto the city wall, heading for the turret from which Egalmoth, friend and colleague, commanded his archers.

When Ecthelion entered, Egalmoth put aside the arrows he had been fletching and rose from behind his table to welcome his visitor warmly. He seemed unusually excited, or perhaps it was just his outfit: his leggings were canary yellow, his boots indigo, his shirt a grassy green, and his robe red velvet patterned with orange. 

No doubt about it, Egalmoth was proud to be Lord of the Heavenly Arch.

Once they had exchanged greetings, Egalmoth held out an arrow. "Well, what do you think?"

Ecthelion considered it. "I see you have finally managed to get all seven colours of the rainbow into the flight. It makes for an interesting, multi-chromatic effect."

"You know, that is exactly what Glorfindel said."

Ecthelion winced at this reminder of Glorfindel's good taste and tact, and, indeed, his name and existence. But then he recalled his errand, and handed the rota sheet to Egalmoth. "And what do you think?"

Egalmoth's sharp archer's eyes swept over it. "Salgant's handwriting. Hmm. I am guessing the unhappy harpist has yet to forgive you for the Incident Of The Censured Concerto."

"I was just trying to offer constructive criticism! I do not understand why people will insist on asking me for my honest opinion on things when the last thing they want is to hear it." Ecthelion's eyes wandered guiltily towards the colourful arrows. "At any rate... you cannot really believe that this is some form of personal revenge? It hurts the whole Guard."

"He probably thinks it is just a harmless joke. You know what he is like." Egalmoth's eyes sparkled. He loved tales and gossip as Ecthelion loved fancy weapons. "Did you know he once put green dye in Glorfindel's shampoo?"

"No." Glorfindel's hair: one more thing Ecthelion did not need to remember. Still, Salgant's prank sounded positively blasphemous. "What happened?"

"Nothing, really. Glorfindel almost lost his temper."

"How very restrained."

"Oh, he noticed it just in time, something about the smell, and you know he prides himself on being nice to difficult people. He says Salgant's jokes are just a cry for help."

Ecthelion was torn. On the one hand, he disliked Salgant for reasons personal, musical, and, now, hair-related. On the other hand, that smug "help" comment was rather asking for it. It was almost as condescending as saying someone has had a difficult childhood.

"But that is stale news," said Egalmoth. "The fresh news is this: you, my friend, will not have to worry about Salgant, his jokes, or his music much longer."

"What do you mean?"

"Ah, have you not heard about the White Lady's planned trip?"

"Actually, I have. I was present when..." Oh, he should never have come. This conversation was clearly jinxed; everything came back to the same topic. "...when Glorfindel received his summons. But what does this have to do with Salgant?"

"Surely you do not think that just one Lord of the Guard is an escort impressive enough for King Turgon's own sister? No, she is to have three."

"Glorfindel, Salgant, and..." Ecthelion had been right: Egalmoth was looking unusually excited. And there had to be a reason for all those freshly fletched arrows. "You!"

Egalmoth nodded. "Interesting choices, do you not find? Though I believe I can follow her thinking well enough. I was chosen to give her someone to hunt with, Salgant the harpist to give her someone to listen to, and Glorfindel—to give her someone to flirt with."

The theory seemed plausible enough, but that last part still bothered Ecthelion, and not just because it marked yet another return to the topic he was trying to avoid. Possibly because it was somewhat unjust. "At least Glorfindel can fight," he said.

"Must you always be so fair? You do not even like him," said Egalmoth. "Certainly, he can fight. But that is not why the Lady asked for him."

"You think there is something between them, truly?" Well, Glorfindel had confessed to lustful thoughts. Perhaps they did concern the White Lady, who was highborn, beautiful, and, really, almost worthy of him. And it was easy enough to believe that she might return his interest. "They would make a fine couple, one dark and one fair." To Ecthelion's displeasure, his voice sounded tense, not as light and amused as he had hoped to make it.

Egalmoth seemed to read some subtlety into his strange tones. "You are right, my friend. The Lady has always been fond of blond men." After a quick glance around the empty room, he leaned forward slightly. "Lord Turgon gave us one rather strange instruction. Can you guess what it was, I wonder?"

"I doubt it."

"He asked us to use all our influence to keep her on the northern road."

The northern road led to Lord Fingon; the southern road—the only real alternative—led to the wood elf realm of Doriath, and to the lands beyond. The sons of Feanor lived there, among them Celegorm the Fair, Aredhel's half-cousin and longtime friend.

"Ah," said Ecthelion. "Your task is difficult indeed."

"Yes, for how can our influence succeed where her brother's has failed?" Egalmoth gave a mock sigh before breaking into a grin. "But imagine: a chance to observe a Feanorion in his natural habitat. And to visit Doriath. They say their Queen is a Maia, and her daughter is the most enchanting maiden in the world."

Flawed as he was, Ecthelion could not be moved by tales of enchanting maidens. But he could be happy for his friend. "Congratulations, Egalmoth."

"Thank you. It is a great opportunity, is it not? A cause for celebration. Which is why," said Egalmoth, "I am organizing a little gathering. At my house, during the night shift. You must come! We are planning to sing."

Having attended several of Egalmoth's "little gatherings", Ecthelion knew very well that they were anything but little. He also knew what the singing would be like, and what popular guardsman was almost certain to attend. Possibly even to co-host. Still, friendship had its duties. He promised to make an appearance.

 

 

Ecthelion thought the celebration started off well enough, even if he himself preferred less rowdy occasions. Of the officers not on night duty, almost all were present, and there was plenty of wine. Not that it was truly needed: some of the men, especially the younger ones, who had been born in the city, seemed to be drunk on the mere idea of the mission even before Egalmoth and Glorfindel stood up to make the first toast.

"Welcome, friends," said Glorfindel. "We are—"

"Very lucky!" shouted one youngster.

"Yes, lucky to be getting away from you, Voronwe," said Egalmoth.

"I'll drink to that!" yelled Voronwe's neighbour. And so he did. Many followed his example. Soon, all pretense of order was lost as the crowd deluged the hosts with requests.

"Bring us back some news!"

"Yes, Lord Egalmoth! Bring us back some gossip!"

"Gossip about the orcs!"

"Just bring us back some orcs!"

That particular request was rewarded with a loud cheer and much drinking.

"We will bring you back a Balrog!" Glorfindel shouted over the crowd, and the cheer turned into a roar.

As he listened to all the suggestions, Ecthelion wondered at Salgant's absence. Had the harpist repented of the ridiculous rota joke and put himself on duty? Eventually, he walked away from the heckling crowd and spent some time chatting with Duilin and Penlod, only to lose them to the loud game of winecups that was in progress in the middle of the room. Alone again, he sipped his drink and watched the chaos. It was not just the youngsters, he realized: almost everyone in the room was jealous of Aredhel's escort. Of course, this was completely natural, considering the strangeness of living in this closed-off city, in a valley that could be crossed in a day. If he himself had not yet succumbed to envy, it was only because he was so unnatural that his mind had been otherwise occupied.

Unable to help himself, he glanced in Glorfindel's direction. To his surprise, their eyes met over their cups. Glorfindel blinked and drained his in one swallow.

Yes, the wine was certainly flowing freely tonight. Even the drunken singing had started much earlier than usual. Ecthelion, who knew that most of the men, especially those of his own House, were competent musicians of solid taste, had never understood why drunken singing had to be so very bad. The harmony line would wander all over the place, and most of the favoured songs either had a hideously nonsensical refrain, or mentioned dead orcs. Or, in some truly unredeemable cases, both. He tried to block out the sounds, concentrating instead on the gentle slosh of the wine at the bottom of his cup.

"Here, let me refill that for you, so we can drink a toast of farewell."

Glorfindel had taken the seat on his right, a large bottle in his hand. Ecthelion passed him the cup, and watched him pour dark liquid into it with the deliberate, controlled motions that suggested much of the contents of the bottle had already been poured into Glorfindel. While a formal toast sounded like a great idea—just the sort of thing that might force Ecthelion's subconscious to realize that it should go temporarily off duty—he could not help feeling mildly concerned.

"Thank you, Glorfindel," he said. "I will drink to you gladly. However, I will not be offended if you yourself hold back. That bottle must be half-empty by now."

"Half-full, I would call it." Glorfindel held the bottle up towards a lamp, so that his face was bathed in blood-coloured light. Ecthelion felt the foreboding before he could remember that he had never put much faith in omens.

"To your safe return, then," he said, much to his own surprise. Embarrassed, he gulped down the wine so fast he almost choked.

"You meant that." Glorfindel smiled a little. "You do want me to return, in spite of our recent difficulties." His growing grin brightened the dimly lit room, and Ecthelion felt the full force of the detested Glorfindel charm. The charm that was, allegedly, why he had been chosen for the escort in the first place.

"Certainly I do," said Ecthelion. "Unless, of course, you wish to stay with the Lady."

Glorfindel shook his head. "Lord Turgon says we must return as soon as our task is done. Anyway, my place is here, in the city."

Suddenly, the wall between them was splattered with wine, the casualty of an ever-rowdier drinking game. Ecthelion did not care: being practical, he had chosen to wear his least favourite, ill-fitting, formal robes. Glorfindel, meanwhile, checked his hair over for signs of damage. Ecthelion could not see any, but he supposed one would have to touch each strand to make sure. It occurred to him that none of his disturbing dreams had ever been set in a cosy pocket of quiet at the center of a noisy party. The idea was terrifying, for the two of them were in plain sight of the whole guard. It was also oddly intriguing. Ecthelion resigned himself to having such a dream in the near future.

"Do you think it very wrong of me," said Glorfindel abruptly, "to look forward to adventure in the outside world, when it is my sworn duty to protect the city?"

"No. I had not even considered the matter." Ecthelion's dislike of Glorfindel flared and burned with a wine-fueled flame. He wanted to hate Glorfindel as someone self-righteous, as certain of his goodness as he surely was of his beauty and his prowess, but these recent signs of an active conscience—the morning's confession, and now this question—were ruining everything. And then, he despised his newfound role as Glorfindel's confessor and bright beacon of morality. He knew it did not fit his flawed self any better than the uncomfortable robes he was wearing.

Yes, the role really was much like the robes; right now, he could not have discarded either without revealing to Glorfindel something rather disturbing.

"It is hard, when duty and desire conflict."

Glorfindel's quiet complaint made Ecthelion panic at first, until he realized that the hard thing mentioned was a situation and not anything disturbing that might be present under anyone's robes. Then he felt angry, for what did Glorfindel really know about conflicts of duty and desire? When he spoke, his voice was sharp.

"Glorfindel, you are getting maudlin in your cups. There is no conflict. You want to go; your lord tells you to do so. You can leave the city quite happily."

"Wait, you are right," said Glorfindel. "I knew that. So why do I feel strangely unhappy?" He looked at Ecthelion as if Ecthelion held, or was, the answer to this question.

Ecthelion glanced around the room, seeking an avenue of escape. He was in luck. Egalmoth caught his eye, and waved him over to the corner where he was currently conducting a disorderly cluster of guardsmen: an impromptu choir.

"Ecthelion, come along! Sing!"

This, surely, was his duty as a guest. Ecthelion got up, abandoning Glorfindel, and attempted to salvage the drunken singing. At first, he merely sang along with the crowd, hoping that his voice alone might make a difference. When this failed, he got a bit more ambitious: he launched into an inspiring, lyrical song about the Glorious Battle. It was not a technically difficult piece, so he found it rather annoying that no-one else would follow his lead, and that, too quickly, he found himself singing alone. Still, when he was finished, a few of the listeners—the more drunk ones, he supposed—had tears in their eyes. He was feeling rather pleased with himself for raising the tone of the gathering, when, without warning, the sentimental crowd launched into a different tune.

Our arrows are flying,  
Our swords brightly glowing.  
The Orcs are all dying!  
Their black blood is flowing!  
O! tril-lil-lil-lolly,  
To slay orcs is jolly!  
Ha! Ha!

Ecthelion had not drunk enough to cope with the thought of having inspired this. He said goodbye to a few half-sober friends and walked out of the building.

 

 

The evening breeze was cool and brisk. He felt heavy by comparison, dazed; he supposed he was slightly drunk, after all. When he paused by the doorway, getting his bearings, he encountered an unexpected sight.

Glorfindel stood out front, leaning on a statue as if on a friend. His hair glowed faintly even against the pale marble. Ecthelion felt sorry for the sculptor. The artist had obviously attempted to capture some ideal of beauty, and here some insensitive twit was making it look rather plain.

Glorfindel turned his head towards the door. "Oh, it is you," he said. "You sing well."

How would he know? He had walked out long before the real singing had begun. Ecthelion had been irritated by that sudden departure, and doubly irritated at being affected by it.

"Too well," Glorfindel continued. "You make even the Orc Ditty sound like a song of valour, you... I have never seen you wear that shade of red before."

Ecthelion looked down at his despised robes. Just as he had expected, the already too shiny satin was even shinier in several places, damp with spilled liquid. Unfortunately, the outfit did not look entirely ruined. Still, his dubious fashion choices were surely none of Glorfindel's business.

"Yes, I am blathering," said Glorfindel. "I must go home." He disengaged himself from the statue and patted it on one smooth arm in farewell. However, after one uncertain step, he was soon leaning on it again.

Now here was an interesting moral dilemma. It was quite clear to Ecthelion where his duty lay: he should get his fellow officer home before any of the men saw him in this disgraceful state. His own desires, base as they were, seemed equally clear, and they began, innocently enough, with getting Glorfindel home. However, there seemed to be a third factor at work, for Ecthelion's conscience told him that this course of action, the one indicated by both duty and desire, was horribly wrong.

However, it was too late at night to hold lengthy debates with one's conscience. Ecthelion relieved the statue of its burden by pulling one of Glorfindel's arms over his shoulders.

"I will help you," he said.

"No!" Glorfindel swayed against him. "You see, I am in this very strange mood—"

"Precisely why I should help you."

Glorfindel peered at Ecthelion. "Right. Always so responsible. I forgot."

Soon, they were stumbling along through little-frequented streets. In every court, the fountains played their music, for once unaccompanied by the choir of voices. It was a soothing sound, and yet Ecthelion could not relax, for, over the falling water, he could hear Glorfindel's breathing, even the beating of his heart. The resulting composition was disturbing. He sought to drown it out with idle chatter.

"So," he said. "I noticed that Salgant was not at the celebration."

"He does not want to go," said Glorfindel. "Poor Salgant. Had a difficult childhood."

Ecthelion groaned to himself.

"I wish," said Glorfindel, his voice clear, "that you were coming instead of him."

"Yes," said Ecthelion, surprising himself again. "I mean, we all wish we were going."

They moved on in silence, Ecthelion not trusting himself to speak for fear of more surprises. The arm thrown over his shoulders was warm but light; Glorfindel walked home mostly under his own power, his free hand swaying out to help his balance.

But the staircase up to Glorfindel's private apartment was narrow, and there he finally faltered, stumbling, so that Ecthelion had to pull Glorfindel close to save him from falling. He was surprisingly heavy for one who normally moved with such grace. It had to be all those muscles, long watched in the training hall, in the bathhouses, and now shifting beneath Ecthelion's fingers. A few strands of golden hair brushed against Ecthelion's face, getting into his mouth and eyes. It could have been a scene from a dream, only Ecthelion had never dreamt of an unconscious partner. There was a wrongness here beyond the one Ecthelion despised in himself, a wrongness that killed desire. He let go of his burden.

Glorfindel slid down onto one of the steps. "Sorry," he said. "See? Not perfect." His head rolled back against the wall, his eyes closing.

Fortunately, the door was right up ahead.

"Glorfindel, if I could just have your key..."

There was no response. Ecthelion knelt down on a step. He could see no keyring. He checked Glorfindel's sleeves and belt. The tailored robes showed no obvious pockets; finding any concealed ones would not be easy. Very, very carefully, he started to move his hands over Glorfindel's body, searching for anything out of place. He felt obscurely horrible: although this situation was one he had longed for, the wrongness was still there. He was just beginning to search the general hip area when Glorfindel's eyes opened.

"What are you doing?"

Ecthelion tried to summon all his dignity. "Looking for a key."

"But the door is unlocked," said Glorfindel.

And so it was. Still irritated by the whole episode, Ecthelion half-dragged Glorfindel inside and over to the bed, which, he could not help but note, was large and comfortable-looking. His task was done—or was it? He was not really sure how to attend to someone so drunk, at least not beyond the vague thought that boot removal might be a good idea. Shrugging to himself, he sat down to take off Glorfindel's boots. After a moment's hesitation, he removed Glorfindel's belt, as well. Although he had tried to be gentle, that final action did not go unnoticed.

"Here, let me—" Glorfindel sat up and grabbed for his shirt. Soon shirt, robe, and all other similar garments were half off his body and tangled up around his head. Ecthelion stared at his bare stomach and flailing arms for a few moments, thinking dully that this was one sight he had never encountered in his dreams, before his better nature finally took over. He helped Glorfindel free his hands, then his head. The hair tumbled free, sliding through Ecthelion's fingers. He sat back and looked.

Ecthelion had, of course, seen Glorfindel in far less than this before, both in reality and in the dreamworld, but here, in the dark room, Glorfindel's skin shone almost as brightly as his hair. And he was clearly no longer the dead weight he had been on the stairs. His eyes looked alert. Only a few small gestures still betrayed his befuddled state. For one, he had placed his right hand on Ecthelion's shoulder, and was now moving it in a way that could almost have been a caress. Perhaps he was mistaking Ecthelion for Aredhel—although the resemblance was far from striking. But, of course, he was naturally affectionate, and this must have stayed with him even now.

Desire returned. The darkest, most flawed part of Ecthelion's mind was asking tempting questions. Questions like, "How much of this will he remember?" Their faces were a handspan apart; all Ecthelion had to do was move forward, and then... If explanations were asked for, well, had he himself not been drinking? He did not long for much, only heat and pressure—or was it just that he knew he could expect nothing more from one barely conscious? But of course he could, he could try for a response. How wrong would it be to give pleasure? Let Glorfindel read it as he would, mistake him for Aredhel, for anybody. And then Ecthelion would know more. His memory would drink in sight and sound, and his dreams would be better, more accurate.

Glorfindel, swaying, shook his head and blinked. "Is this a dream?" he whispered. His fingers slid across Ecthelion's shoulder, touched his neck. Naturally affectionate, naturally trusting. He leaves his door unlocked, thought Ecthelion. He thinks I am a natural ascetic. He asks me stupid questions about duty and desire.

Two things that no longer coincided. Ecthelion, recalled to his senses, saw just how wide the gap between them had grown. And he had almost failed to spot it. He felt sickened, dizzy, but he would not fall.

"Not yet," he said, and left Glorfindel to his dreams.

 

 

In need of a sanctuary, Ecthelion headed for his office at the guardhouse. His weapons would be there; handling them would ground him further. If that did not work, he could try the flute he kept in his desk. And then, there would be a hundred tedious tasks to attend to. He would have no further trouble from the incomplete list on the wall, for what was a mere name when he had just escaped from the real thing?

The night shift, very surprised to see him, scrambled to stand at attention. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw dice swept under a mug, and there was something roasting over the fire, quite contrary to the regulations. Ecthelion scanned each guardsman's face in turn as he searched for just the right words of sarcasm to put in his reprimand, and watched pair after pair of eyes turn to the floor. It was strange, to know his gaze still seemed righteous. But then, Ecthelion had to believe that the difference between thought and deed truly mattered, else he would have given up on himself long ago.

Only one of the guards held his eyes. A brave man, then, especially considering that he was wearing a beer-jug instead of a helmet.

"Um, Lord Ecthelion," he said, "a message was left for you. From Lord Turgon. We were just going to send it on to your house; you will find it on your desk." He cast a helpful, hopeful look towards Ecthelion's office door. When Ecthelion failed to move, he attempted a smile instead. "Congratulations, my lord. The messenger said that you are to replace Lord Salgant in the White Lady's honour guard."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0\. Yes, Elves really do get drunk like that, at least in the Hobbit. And they do sing atrocious songs: the Orc-Slaying Ditty is a rewrite of the Rivendell Welcome Song from the same book.  
> 1\. Egalmoth of the Heavenly Arch, Salgant of the Harp, Duilin and Penlod are characters from The Fall Of Gondolin. And, yes, Salgant was rather unpleasant. He lived out his days as Morgoth's jester.  
> 2\. As for who really did escort Aredhel out of Gondolin-—it's not certain. Tolkien did, at one point, say it was Ecthelion, Egalmoth, and Glorfindel, but his son states that he later recanted, perhaps because it is hard to imagine all those Balrog-slaying types getting into so much trouble. Me, I figure that, as long as I am destroying all their reputations anyway, I can conform to the original vision.


	3. Finwe's Grandchild

Turgon was a wise lord. He knew much about his subjects and their amusements, and he would, with foresight and compassion, make a point of keeping a decanter of pure water in his study on certain mornings.

"Please, do have another."

As Ecthelion accepted the full glass, he could not help feeling as if he were repaying openhearted kindness with a lie. He knew he was only confirming Turgon in the belief that his pained appearance was a result of wholesome, if over-enthusiastic, revelry. In reality, of course, Ecthelion was tormented by the memory of last night's temptation. However, he could never confess this to his lord, whose opinions on the matter of such debaucheries were widely known. Egalmoth still spoke of the music-hall incident of a year ago, when Turgon had thrown a harpist out of the room for singing a suggestive song about Turgon's brother Fingon, his cousin Maedhros, and their dueling swords.

But today Turgon was all gentleness, his speech soft as he offered Ecthelion advice.

"Be wary," he said. "For although Morgoth is besieged up North, there are many other perils in this land."

Ecthelion knew this already, but he also knew that it was Turgon's great love for his younger sister, whom he considered 'a shy, white woodland flower,' that made him so overprotective. Ecthelion, in turn, loved his lord—blessedly, in a pure way, uncomplicated by unnatural desires. And so he had accepted the position in Aredhel's escort, in spite of all his misgivings. Soon, he would be spending all his time talking to Glorfindel, eating with Glorfindel, sleeping with Glorfindel... it was difficult not to dwell on the possibilities. Mustering his fading willpower, Ecthelion listened to the repetitive warnings, and nodded sympathetically.

 

 

An hour or so later, Ecthelion walked out onto the palace courtyard. It was filled by the usual crowd of foppish courtiers, absent-minded scholars, and harassed pages, but one striking figure stood out among the common rabble.

Glorfindel looked quite well for someone who had, only twelve hours earlier, found walking unsupported difficult. Only the lightest shadows under his eyes betrayed him.

"Well met, Ecthelion," he said.

Here it came: the mutually embarrassing show of misplaced gratitude. Ecthelion braced himself. "Well met, Glorfindel. I suppose you have heard that I will be joining Aredhel's escort? I am told that Salgant could not bear to be away from his family for so long."

"Well, it is a hard thing to be separated from those you care for," said Glorfindel.

Ecthelion was irritated by the diplomacy of that statement; any other guardsman would have pointed out that Salgant, a man who spent all his off-duty hours in the officers' drinking hall was, presumably, quite used to not seeing his family.

Glorfindel went on. "Yes, I had heard the good news; I came here to congratulate you and also to, well... thank you for your assistance."

"Please do not mention it." Ecthelion meant every word.

"But I must. My state was inexcusable. I really want you to know that I do not normally drink anywhere near that much. It is just that everyone wanted to toast my departure, and—"

"That is understandable. You have many friends." Ecthelion really wanted this exchange to end. Still, there was something more that needed to be said, and, as uncomfortable as it made him feel, he knew that he was the only one who could say it. "You might want to be more careful in the future, though. You were barely conscious. What if you had fallen prey to a... practical joke?"

"Oh, that seems very unlikely. I was not so far gone that I would have accepted any assistance from Salgant. Even when drunk, I am still myself." Glorfindel's voice carried such confidence that Ecthelion felt almost convinced. He longed to be certain: to know that he could not really have fallen, that, if he had tried to fall, Glorfindel would have helped him by throwing him down the stairs.

"I suppose you were fairly in character," he said absentmindedly. "You have always been naturally affectionate."

"Affectionate?" Glorfindel paled. "Merciful Manwe. Ecthelion, I am so sorry. I thought... What did I do?"

"You rubbed my shoulder."

"Ah. Your shoulder. I think I remember that. Good. And, really, it was only natural, seeing as I had been hanging off it all the way home." Glorfindel, red-faced now, forced a laugh. "But I fell asleep immediately afterwards, right?"

"I do not know. I left... What do you mean, you 'think you remember that?' You just said you were not all that far gone."

After a brief venture into his natural skin tones, Glorfindel was red again; he seemed to be turning into one of those flashing lamps the Palace put out on holidays. "I was not. I do remember the shoulder incident. I just thought it was part of a dream. Truly, I can remember everything. Falling down the stairs. And the key." Glorfindel touched his hip. Ecthelion hoped he was recalling some bruise sustained in the fall and not the trauma of the key search. "Getting into bed, and... undressing... which is, again, only natural. It is healthy to sleep in the nude."

"Why, certainly it is." Ecthelion could just picture it. The dark green sheets, and Glorfindel upon them. Knowing it was horribly cliché, he thought of shafts of sunlight in a murky wood. At that thought, the green sheets turned to moss, a surface they might both be sleeping on in a few days. Ecthelion was getting increasingly worried about the logistics of this trip.

"Except, perhaps, while on a mission such as ours," he said. "We would not want to frighten the lady."

"Frighten Aredhel?" Glorfindel looked doubtful. "You do not know her very well, do you?"

"No," said Ecthelion. But of course Glorfindel did. Had not Egalmoth implied that there was something between them? How else could Glorfindel have known her attitudes towards nudity?

"You will." Glorfindel sighed, exactly as a wistful lover might.

 

 

They rode out of Gondolin the following morning, under the envious eyes of a cheering crowd. No doubt they made a splendid sight, clad in their fine mail and flowing cloaks: Ecthelion in silver, Aredhel in white, Glorfindel in green and gold, and Egalmoth in an outfit Ecthelion could not bring himself to contemplate. The trip through the valley passed without incident. Aredhel seemed giddy, delighted both with the journey itself and with her companions. Ecthelion discovered that he was expected to sing, just as Egalmoth was expected to discuss the finer points of archery and gossip, and Glorfindel—to amuse the lady by being teased. About his hair, his clothes, the length of his sword; about anything, including the invariable cheerful politeness with which he deflected all comments. Ecthelion himself would have considered this torture rather than flirtation, but then, he was not Aredhel's admirer.

Once they were outside the Encircling Mountains, the mood changed. Aredhel rode out ahead and turned to face her escort, her back soldier-straight, her face imperious.

"Now that this journey begins in earnest," she said, "I want to make a few things clear. First of all, the purpose of my trip is to visit my cousin Celegorm in Himlad. I would prefer to have your company, but it is not vital. Secondly, as long as we travel together, I am in charge. It is only right, as I am Finwe's grandchild. And, thirdly, I expect all three of you to answer to the name Huan. I have always wanted a faithful servant called Huan, and I cannot be bothered with all these Sindarin names."

The first two statements had not been unexpected, but the third... "My lady, you may be Finwe's grandchild, but we are your escort, not your servants—"

"Ecthelion, no," Glorfindel whispered.

How could he defend, even admire, such an infuriating woman? Ecthelion, at any rate, would not fall for her wiles. "And you certainly do not have the right to rename us on a whim. I intend to answer to 'Ecthelion', or 'Ehtelion' if you really insist, or even 'Hey you!' in an emergency. But definitely not to Huan."

Aredhel smiled. "Oh, very well. I will forget the renaming business. But I am glad the rest has all been settled." She rode off a short distance. "Are you three not coming, then? Never mind. Finwe's grandchild needs no escort."

They followed, of course. They owed it to Turgon.

 

 

They made camp just before sunset. The guardsmen built a fire while Aredhel stood some distance away, practicing her archery skills on a dead tree.

"Truly, I am glad to be on this journey," said Egalmoth. "It has long been my life's ambition to visit every Elven realm in Beleriand."

"That is rather ironic," said Ecthelion, "considering that you live in a sealed-off city."

"Many of life's ambitions are tinged with irony. Do you have a life's ambition, Ecthelion?"

Ecthelion quickly rejected the first idea that popped into his head, the one about Glorfindel, the forest stream, and the shampoo. Not only was it not an actual ambition as such, but it was utterly shameful. Striving to focus on virtue, he devised a nobler option. "Yes. My life's ambition is to defend the innocent. In Gondolin, or anywhere."

"That is possibly the least interesting ambition I have ever heard of," said Egalmoth. "And not even a bit ironic. Ecthelion, you may be righteous, but you are also very boring."

Even without looking, Ecthelion knew that Glorfindel was scrutinizing him thoughtfully. He braced himself, waiting for the inevitable compassionate words.

"I think," said Glorfindel, "that Ecthelion—"

"Please do not say that it was my childhood. I mean, I know I spent a large part of it living in Alqualonde, and... " Ecthelion could still recall the sickening shock of arriving at the city after it had been sacked by the Feanorions. His lord's allies. He remembered looking for the music school and finding only a dark outline filled with twisted shapes. "Fine, Glorfindel, you win. I admit that the kinslaying might have upset me on some level. Happy now?"

Glorfindel looked far less smug than he had expected. "Well, no, of course not. I think—"

"I think we all have mixed feelings about the Feanorions," said Egalmoth. "However, seeing as we are on our way to visit one, perhaps this is not the best time to explore them."

"I could not agree more," said Ecthelion.

"Good. In that case, let us discuss your ambitions, Glorfindel. And your heritage. You are part Vanyarin, are you not? Plenty of ironic possibilities there, I think. Do you want to go back to Valinor?"

"No, of course not. As long as there are dark forces afoot in Middle-earth, my place is here. But if you want to know my non-boring ambition, it is to somehow convince one of the Eagles to take me up into the sky."

This was exactly why Ecthelion had to hate Glorfindel: because he could say something noble, and mean it, and then, suddenly, laugh and give a light answer to a bizarre question. It was fortunate that they slept on opposite sides of the campfire, and that nobody seemed in the mood to explore the health benefits of nudity. Still, Ecthelion spent far too much of his watch staring over the fire and realizing that clothes were no impediment to one gifted with a perfect memory—although the reflection of the flames on naked skin might have made for an interesting effect. He knew such thoughts were wrong, but they were the only way to keep his mind off Aredhel and all that flirtatious teasing. 

 

 

The following day, when they reached the fork in the road, Aredhel turned south without a moment's hesitation. Her escort followed, and soon all four were riding among the trees of Doriath. Ecthelion felt happy to be in a proper forest again, even if the sunlight shining through the branches reminded him of a certain inappropriate fantasy. Or perhaps because of this, for the others seemed slightly uneasy.

"There is something strange about this place," said Glorfindel.

"Well, we are definitely being watched," said Egalmoth. "But I am not sure how strange that is. We are crossing a border, after all."

Not being a skilled hunter, Ecthelion could not detect any watchers; he was, however, aware of the forest's enchantment, and he did feel that there might be something unusual about it, something that was due to more than the familiar magic of nature. This impression was confirmed when the trees thinned, and they found themselves back at the spot where they had first entered the woods.

Aredhel said nothing. She simply turned around, and waited for the others to do the same before heading back inside.

The next time it happened, she growled and doubled back without waiting.

It was only on the third attempt that they finally met the border guards. As they rounded an ancient oak, they found their path barred by two grim-faced Sindar. The pale-haired one carried the largest bow Ecthelion had ever seen, while the dark-haired one held an interesting longspear.

"Hail, Noldor," the bowman said. "Halt and tell us why you persist in trying to enter our forest."

Aredhel rode forward. "I am Aredhel, daughter of High King Fingolfin, grandchild of—"

"I know who you are," the spearman said. "We have met before. Although I expect I was below the notice of such a high Noldorin lady."

From her high seat on her horse, Aredhel studied him as if inspecting the trail of a strange animal. "Ah. I believe you came to my father's council," she said at last. Judging from her expression, she had just decided the animal was below the notice of a serious huntress. "Now, will you show us the path that leads to the eastern edge of these woods?"

"Why would you want to go there?"

"I wish to visit my cousin Celegorm."

"The Feanorion! Curse him and his kin." The spearman took a step back and spat upon the ground. The bowman followed his lead; and a rain-like sound coming from the trees suggested that they concealed many more warriors, all of whom shared the anti-Feanorian sentiment.

The bowman toyed with his quiver. "These woods are not open to the friends of the sons of Feanor." Again, he spat after saying the hated name. This time, Ecthelion tried to count the sounds made by the concealed Sindar, arriving at two dozen.

"In fact," the spearman said, "they are closed to all Noldor." He replanted his spear.

Aredhel rode forward a bit further, ignoring the implicit threats. "Yet I am quite certain that my cousins Ingoldo and Artanis have traveled through these woods."

"Certain, perhaps, but mistaken," the spearman said. "None have entered our realm bearing such hideous Noldorin names."

"Mablung," said the bowman thoughtfully. "I think she means that man who is always asking strange questions, and who loses so gracefully when we play cards. And that sister of his with the stare, the one who always wins. They have some Noldorin blood, I believe."

"Oh, them," said Mablung. "Well, they are relatives of our King. These travelers clearly are not."

"Ecthelion is part Telerin," said Egalmoth.

"Ecthelion? The one with the spear?" Mablung looked at said spear in a most insolent way, obviously aware that his own weapon was both larger and scarier. "He looks like a typical Noldo to me. And even if he does have Telerin blood... how would that help your case? I could never trust a Teler who, of his own free will, wished to visit one of Feanor's kinslaying, um... kin."

The spitting that followed seemed more profuse than before, but Ecthelion would not be intimidated. "I travel as I do in the service of my lord, King Turgon."

"King Turgon?" the bowman asked. "Is he the one who rescued the Feanorian leader?"

"No, he is the one with the hidden city," said Mablung after the usual Feanorian-inspired spitting was over. He was still staring at Ecthelion. "Tell me, Noldo, is your city near here?"

Ecthelion felt annoyed. And reasonably confident that he could take down this judgmental, over-inquisitive tree-dweller, no matter how their spears compared.

"We cannot speak of this." Glorfindel edged forward on Ecthelion's right. "We must protect our city, just as you protect your realm. I am sure you understand. After all, we are warriors with a common cause. Are we not all simply obeying the commands of our lords? And, since it is your king's law that keeps us out of this forest, might we not at least petition him in person? Our errand is... urgent."

Listening to him speak, Ecthelion felt strangely proud: of his composed beauty, of his reasonable words, even of that slight hesitation on 'urgent' that revealed his honest nature. For a moment, he even thought the speech would work. The spearman smiled.

"Perhaps. If you agree to give up all your weapons, travel blindfolded, and then pay homage to King Thingol as king of all Beleriand."

"As king of—" Aredhel's horse danced and backed away. "Come, men, we are wasting our time here."

Glorfindel persisted in his diplomatic efforts. "If you will not let us through, will you at least tell us if there is another way?"

The Sindar exchanged glances. Then, the bowman spoke. "Your path must lead around Doriath, to the north or to the south, but the northern road, the one leading through the Nan Dungortheb and the Fords of Aros, will be faster. Though perilous."

"To you Sindar, perhaps. We Noldor laugh at peril," said Aredhel.

The spearman jiggled his spear again. "Do you also laugh at orcs and giant spiders?"

"Speak not of giant spiders to a grandchild of Finwe, Dark Elf!" said Aredhel. "Long have I despised their smaller brethren, and killed them on sight, ruining many a fine slipper and scroll. Filling them with my arrows will be both a solemn duty and a great pleasure. Indeed, now that you have spoken of them, I am impatient for our first encounter."

For once, Ecthelion sympathized with her. He sought Mablung's eye again, warrior to warrior. "It is quite true," he said. "We Noldor like killing large spiders."

Mablung's expression was only half-mocking. "Well, give it a try then. But..." he appeared to struggle with himself. "Do not drink any of the water that comes off the mountains. It is poisonous. Stick to the edge of the forest; you will find sweet water there."

He would say nothing more. Ecthelion gave him a nod before departing.

 

 

As they rode out of the woods, Aredhel refused to talk about her travel plans. "The trees may have Sindarin ears," she said.

Her escort trailed behind her, discussing the matter in low voices.

"I would not mind shooting a giant spider or two," said Egalmoth. "Do you think they twitch much, when they die?"

"It would be interesting to find out," said Glorfindel. "And, of course, it would make a fine story, once we are back in the city."

It was up to Ecthelion to say what needed to be said. "You are right, spider-slaying sounds most amusing," he began. "And yet... Nan Dungortheb: The Valley Of Dreadful Death. If I recall correctly, it lies just south of the Mountains of Terror, and, of course, just north of a forest inhabited by some Sindar who do not seem to like us very much. Is this really the sort of place where we would want to take our lord's only sister?"

"I was wondering who among us would have the courage to bring that up," said Glorfindel. "Of course, now I am wondering who will have the courage to bring it up with the lady."

Egalmoth took up the challenge once they reached the edge of the wood. "My lady!" he said. "As those Sindar said, the road through Nan Dungortheb is perilous—"

Aredhel threw him a furious glance. "You are either a coward, or a fool, if you doubt my courage."

Ecthelion could think of nothing to say to that; but Glorfindel rode forward.

"My lady, we value your courage highly. It is just that you travel under our protection."

Aredhel turned around. "I did not ask for protection, but for an honour guard. If you think me weak, then you are blinded by my gender."

"No, my lady, I do not think you weak. Your prowess with the bow is often discussed among the men of the Guard. However, the risk—"

"I do not ask you to risk your lives for me."

"No. But you will risk your own, just to travel to Himlad." Glorfindel spoke gently. "Will you not, at least, discuss the matter?"

"Oh, very well."

The two of them dismounted and began a debate. As far as Ecthelion could tell, it was immediately going round in the expected circles.

"I suppose," said Egalmoth, "that Glorfindel will do his best, even if the odds are not good. Let us set up camp."

Ecthelion took charge of the horses. When he next looked over towards Aredhel, she was sitting on a fallen log, and talking earnestly. Glorfindel was seated close beside her. Ecthelion felt strangely pained, for they did make a fine couple, a pleasingly contrasting one. He touched his own dark hair, decided that he was a perfect idiot, and turned away.

He had only just started the campfire when Egalmoth joined him, carrying a small handful of wood.

"Poor Glorfindel," he said. "I accidentally overheard a bit. They were discussing the effects a long separation might have on the heart. I had only just heard Celegorm's name mentioned when Aredhel spotted me and told me to stop skulking in the bushes."

Poor Glorfindel indeed, since soon he might be separated from Aredhel, with whom he was speaking of love. Ecthelion could not decide whether to pity Glorfindel, or himself. Or, indeed, Celegorm, if he really was the object of Aredhel's affections.

Glorfindel certainly looked rather pitiable as he assumed his usual spot by the fire.

"The Valley Of Dreadful Death it is," he said.

Egalmoth wasted no time. "So, what did Finwe's grandchild say about Finwe's other grandchild? Celegorm, I mean?"

"Why not ask her yourself?" 

While Glorfindel's answer was diplomatic, his tone was less so. Ecthelion winced at this obvious sign of pain.

"Of course," said Egalmoth, "We all know what they say about half-cousins in our ruling family. Has either of you heard Salgant's latest song about Fingon and Maedhros?"

Ecthelion had not, but then, he did not want to. Or rather, he wanted to, quite badly, but he really did not need to. He would have to distract Egalmoth, and quickly. Perhaps he could...

"I have not," said Glorfindel. He seemed eager for a change of subject. "What sort of song is it?"

"Oh, a hilarious one. It is titled 'Where Is His Other Hand?'"

Ecthelion had expected something more erotic. But this was a mockery: of Maedhros' disability, certainly, but, even worse, of his own innermost desires. "But that is obscene," he said. "Hideous."

"It is rather a strange song, yes. I cannot remember it exactly, but in the first verse—"

"Egalmoth, I do not want to hear this."

"Do you truly think it so hideous?" Glorfindel was looking at Ecthelion intently. "Why do you judge it so harshly? Desire is not always given where one chooses, is not always wise."

Yes, Glorfindel was ever the defender of difficult people. But even he would not be speaking with such sympathy if he had any inkling of just how unwise desire could be. The temptation to simply slide over there and show him was not particularly strong, but it was there. Ecthelion turned away from the bright gaze and looked into bright flames.

But Glorfindel would not give up. "Indeed, unwise desire is rather common. Just think of all the men you know who long for an unavailable woman."

Ecthelion understood then: this was no idle sympathy. This was about Aredhel, who loved her cousin, and so was not available to other men. He stared unblinking into the fire until his eyes watered.

But now Egalmoth was speaking again, eager. "You think that it is true about Fingon, then?"

"I do not know," said Glorfindel. "It is none of our business, surely."

"I doubt it," said Egalmoth. "They both seem rather competent. Surely a forbidden attachment of that type would affect their ability to perform their duties?"

"No, I cannot believe that," said Glorfindel. "Two people who are both of valiant, honourable heart, who feel for each other—surely such people will strive all the harder, so as not to shame themselves in one another's eyes. Hone their battle skills and their honour together. Inspire each other to deeds of surpassing courage and greatness."

His voice had grown richer and deeper as he spoke. Now he shone: eyes, hair, skin, all were shining with the strength of his belief. Ecthelion shifted, painfully roused by this sudden evidence of passion. He thought of Aredhel who was surely valiant—and, even more surely, foolish to reject someone so irritatingly glorious.

"Even when the situation is impossible, when desire is not returned..." Glorfindel smiled sadly. "Even then, something good can, I think, come of it. That inspiration will still be there, even if it is only one-sided."

How could he torment himself so over someone so unworthy? Ecthelion wanted to do Glorfindel violence. Throw him on the ground, weigh him down so he could not breathe. Shut him up. He knew his anger was an ugly emotion, but he could not hold it back.

"That certainly sounds like a useful sort of bond," he said, "if it will 'inspire' that Feanorion to ever greater deeds. After all, we know what his other hand will most likely be doing. Killing a Teler."

Glorfindel flinched slightly. Egalmoth raised his eyebrows.

"That was a bit abrupt, not to mention over-wrought," he said. "But it does seem appropriate. You should ask Salgant to put it in the song."

"I see what you mean, Ecthelion—I was not thinking." Glorfindel had recovered from his shocked silence. "Is that why you thought it hideous and obscene?"

Ecthelion considered saying that it was, objectively, hideous and obscene and wrong, but the hypocrisy of that statement gave him pause. It was a difficult moment. Relief came from a very unexpected source.

"Come quickly!" Aredhel stepped into the firelight. Her smile was so joyous that, for a moment, even Ecthelion could see that she was beautiful. "And bring your weapons. There are orcs out in the valley."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0\. In case anyone out there does not know this, Maedhros and Fingon are arguably the slashiest elf couple in all of Tolkien's works. They're certainly all over this archive.  
> 1\. The name thing: back in Valinor, the Noldor spoke Quenya and had Quenya names. In Middle-Earth, they took on new, Sindarin names, and started to speak Sindarin, in part to appease the irritated Sindar. So "Ehtelion" is supposed to be Ecthelion's Quenya name. Oh, and Huan was Celegorm's magical dog. (But hey, you probably all know this.)  
> 2\. Among the Elves, cooking is more commonly done by men. Women usually bake the bread, though.  
> 3\. Regarding my heroes' heritage: in canon, both Ecthelion and Glorfindel are described as Noldor. However, Ecthelion's affinities for water and music just scream 'some Telerin blood' to me. And there has to be some explanation for Glorfindel's yellow hair. (All the blond Noldor we know of have some Vanyarin blood.)  
> 4\. Ingoldo and Artanis are the Quenya names of Finrod and Galadriel. Aredhel uses them because she is feeling increasingly Noldorin and snooty.  
> 5\. The name "Ecthelion" can (possibly) be derived from the Sindarin word "Ecthel", meaning point of a spear. That is how Mablung picks Ecthelion out: he is the only one with a spear.  
> 6\. Glorfindel's little outburst is based (very loosely) on the immensely slashy speech of Phaedrus in Plato's Symposium. Sample thereof:  
> "And if there were only some way of contriving that a state or an army should be made up of lovers and their loves, they would be the very best governors of their own city, abstaining from all dishonour, and emulating one another in honour; and when fighting at each other's side, although a mere handful, they would overcome the world."


	4. Brothers-In-Arms

To any warrior who has spent centuries in hiding while his enemies roamed free, a chance for battle is a very special occasion. The smallest details take on great significance. Ecthelion hesitated over his choice of weapon, glancing from his spear to his mace to his old sword. At last, he decided that Aredhel's Orc warning had made him feel rather nostalgic, and picked up the battle-tested blade. He then joined the others at the edge of the forest where, half concealed by the trees, they watched some hunched shapes move across the valley.

"Four dozen," said Egalmoth.

"Running towards us. Good." Aredhel hugged herself happily, like a little girl preparing to unwrap a present. "Here, this big oak looks sturdy. Let us find good positions up there and string our bows. We will hold our fire until we can count their teeth; that way we can pick them all off, even if they run. The swordsmen will guard our tree down by the roots."

Reluctantly, Ecthelion had to acknowledge that it was as good a plan as any. Aredhel was clearly skilled at hurting things, whether they were game, Orcs, or Glorfindel's feelings—although Ecthelion was pleased to note that Glorfindel, at least, cheered up somewhat once they had assumed their positions under the tree.

"You know, Ecthelion," said Glorfindel, "this is what I meant, in a way, when I just spoke. Surely it is neither hideous nor obscene, to stand beside a worthy companion and fight creatures of evil? The desire part hardly matters at all."

Ecthelion could detect a certain tightness in his voice during that last statement. Glorfindel had never been a good liar, but if lies helped him get over his pain, who was Ecthelion to argue?

"Quite right," he said. "Let us forget all about unnatural desires and focus on our swords."

Glorfindel blinked and lowered the weapon he had been holding out in front of his body just as Aredhel, up above them, whistled a hunting signal. Off in the distance, the first Orcs started falling to swift arrows. The remaining creatures headed straight for the forest.

 

 

When the Orcs finally reached the oak, Ecthelion found them a disappointingly poor lot. For one, their tactics were atrocious. Instead of holding off until they could launch a concentrated attack, they arrived in small groups, so that Ecthelion and Glorfindel never had to deal with more than two or so apiece. And then, their fighting skills were underwhelming: Ecthelion never got a single chance to take advantage of his battle formation training by blocking a blow meant for Glorfindel. The only real challenge was the footwork, which got increasingly tricky as the pile of bodies at his feet rose higher, until it was, more accurately speaking, the pile of bodies at his knees.

Once all his Orcs were dead, Ecthelion glanced over to his right, where Glorfindel was dispatching his final attacker, fighting with grace and a smug smile. Watching him, Ecthelion felt elated by the victory, in spite of the disappointments of the battle itself. But Glorfindel did not seem to share his joy. His smile faded even as his opponent fell, and he stood there awkwardly, uncharacteristically reluctant to exchange the traditional congratulatory gesture of victorious warriors—a rough hug followed by a slap on the lower back.

"Well fought," he said instead.

Ecthelion had to admit that he was quite relieved by the break with tradition, for his elation was making the blood sing throughout his body. A hug seemed rather risky. "You too," he said.

"Are you injured?"

"I am not sure. You?"

"I am not sure, either."

They both began to check themselves over in the usual fashion, scrutinizing the weak points of their armour and running their hands over their lightly armoured limbs. Ecthelion's subconscious had only just presented him with the predictable thoughts that they should really be checking each other, and that clothes were only in the way, when Glorfindel let out a pained hiss. Ecthelion felt a pang of concern, which faded only slightly when he realized that the cause was simply a huge clot of gore caught in Glorfindel's hair.

Though unsettled by the Orcish origins of the mess, Ecthelion had a vision of other ways in which hair could be disheveled. Yes, his blood certainly was singing, and in some parts of his body more than in others. He could not look away from Glorfindel, not even when Aredhel and Egalmoth came down from the tree.

"Oh, do not stare at me in that disapproving way, Ecthelion," said Glorfindel. "I am not about to 'start braiding my hair like a normal warrior.' Now, if anybody wants me, I will be bathing in the river."

Aredhel laughed. "Well, that certainly is a tempting invitation! Who is it aimed at, I wonder?"

Ecthelion wanted to slap her for the cruelty of toying thus with someone she had just rejected. He tried to send Glorfindel a sympathetic look, but Glorfindel would not meet his eye.

"I meant 'if anyone wants me to slay any more Orcs'," he said with dignity before walking off.

Ecthelion was in need of a wash himself, but the recent victory, the hair-related visions, and Aredhel's innuendo made even the thought of bathing anywhere within a league of Glorfindel far too dangerous. He settled for cleaning his sword, and helping the archers collect their spent arrows. They had some sort of a bet going as to who had scored the most kills, but Ecthelion retired before the matter was fully resolved.

 

 

Ecthelion dreamed that he was standing opposite Glorfindel in a landscape of gently rolling hills topped with silver shrubbery. He knew it was a dream because Glorfindel's presence was a source of simple pleasure, unmingled with shame. The fact that the hills were actually piles of dead Orcs, and the shrubbery—a tangle of broken Orc weapons only confirmed his suspicions. The fact that the dead Orcs were all singing the Orc-Slaying Ditty was a completely superfluous clue. Finally, the fact that both Glorfindel and Ecthelion were nude made perfect sense, because the two of them were supposed to check each other over for injuries. Ecthelion circled Glorfindel, but he could see none on his flawless body.

"Those Orcs were running away from something in the valley, you know," said Glorfindel. "They practically ran onto our swords."

At the mention of swords, Ecthelion was shocked to realize that he was unarmed. This made him feel twice as naked. He looked down at himself.

"Yes," said Glorfindel. "I know your sword is long and keen. However, I do not know if it can compare to the White Lady's gently arching bow." His hand drew a curve in the air, and he turned away, towards an Orc-hill. "We must count all these Orcs, and see how many have been slain by arrows. Only then will I know which of you two is capable of the greater acts of valour."

Ecthelion, used to singing songs written by the finest poets, found the clumsy symbolism painful. But then, he had always known that the dream Glorfindel was far worse company than the real one, in spite of his frequent willingness and even more frequent nudity. Still, he was all Ecthelion had, and so Ecthelion started to count arrows.

 

 

The process went on all night; in the end, the only thing a frustrated Ecthelion took away from the dream was the conviction that the Orcs had, indeed, been running from something. When he shared this insight with the rest of the group, Aredhel, predictably, insisted that they follow the Orc tracks towards the source of danger. They rode out across the plain, and, after fording a river, entered the Valley of Dreadful Death.

The valley was a barren, rocky place, only occasionally broken by dark streams, which twisted among the stones as if in torment. Even their gurgling had a tortured sound. Ecthelion had never heard water sound so discordant, had never seen it look so black. But then, everything was shadowed here, and the shadows seemed longer than they should be.

And then there was the smell.

"What a very strange aroma," said Aredhel.

Ecthelion found it less strange. "A bit like the sewers under our city," he said.

"How do you— Oh, right," said Egalmoth. "I keep forgetting that 'Lord of the Fountains' is code for 'Lord of the Plumbing.' I suppose it makes some semantic sense, but I will never understand why you chose to supervise such an unpleasant aspect of city planning instead of helping out with the concert halls, or something."

"Some people," said Glorfindel, "simply do whatever needs to be done."

"Yes, Ecthelion is very noble, is he not?" Aredhel sounded flirtatious, and probably looked even worse, but Ecthelion kept his eyes on the ground.

"A tree!" said Egalmoth. "I see a tree in the distance, one bearing strange pale fruit."

Ecthelion could see only a blurry mushroom shape but, as they rode towards it, this shape did, indeed, resolve itself into a fruit-laden tree. As they got even closer, the fruit started to resemble the cocoons he had once seen in a silk-making workshop —only these cocoons were filthy, and large enough to conceal a warrior. Spider work, for sure. Ecthelion decided to check whether they hid the spiders themselves, or their dead prey. He lifted his spear and rode ahead of the others, hoping they would have sense enough to hold back. Once he was within reach of a cocoon, he tapped it lightly with his far-reaching weapon. The movement it made was not entirely due to the prodding, and, through the threads, he could just discern a familiar shape.

"This one contains an Orc," he said over his shoulder. "A living Orc." As he looked around, he realized that the other cocoons held similar captives. In a few cases, he could even make out faces trapped beneath the thread, contorted in anger and fear. "They all do, I think."

His companions joined him, and the four of them wandered together under the giant tree, among the bound Orcs.

"A spider's larder," said Egalmoth. "Very interesting. I expect our Orcs were the ones that got away—or, more likely, the ones that got tossed back. They did look a bit scrawny."

"It is a fitting end for such creatures," said Aredhel. "Evil feeding on evil... it is almost poetic, would you not say, Ecthelion?"

Surprised by the question, Ecthelion said what was on his mind. "If you think about it that way. And yet, what a horrible death."

"You feel for the Orcs?" asked Glorfindel. "Can you not sense their evil? I certainly can."

Ecthelion might have taken that statement to heart, only he knew very well that Glorfindel was incapable of detecting evil even when said evil was sitting on his bed. "I am sure they all had terrible childhoods," he said.

"What would you have us do? Free them?"

"I think I would like to kill them. Give them a merciful—"

"Kill them. Yes," said Aredhel. "Ecthelion, you are a warrior after my own heart."

"Of course," Ecthelion continued, "killing these Orcs might upset the spiders."

They debated the matter. Egalmoth, who had found some fresh spider tracks, was against upsetting the spiders. Ecthelion was leaning towards 'against', too, because of his duty to protect his lord's sister; he calmed his conscience by telling it that he would not be doing the Orcs any active evil. Glorfindel was undecided.

"Well, I am all for it," said Aredhel. "I am not afraid of the spiders. And we would not want these Orcs to escape and kill any innocents, would we?" Ignoring the others, she strung her bow and started shooting. Ecthelion joined her, sword in hand; it would have been hypocritical to stand aside.

 

 

Their grim task done, the travelers turned eastward and set out across the rocky plain. As they rode, the clouds above them thickened until they hung heavy like Orc cocoons, and a murky fog started to drift off the mountain. They passed strange stagnant pools, where darkness played upon the surface of the water as light might play upon the surface of a clear lake. Up ahead the fog was denser, with patches of solid blackness.

"Unlight," said Ecthelion.

"My grandfather died in unlight," said Aredhel. "The spiders must be close." She looked at the cloud as if facing down a despised enemy; then, perhaps judging that it had been sufficiently intimidated, she started to move her shying horse towards it.

"We should probably lead the horses through the fog." Glorfindel caught up with her and dismounted. He placed his hands on the two animals' necks, so that they stood in place, calm but wary.

"Actually, " said Egalmoth, "I think we should lead the horses around it. Preferably towards the forest. Call me a coward, but I have no wish to practice archery inside a cloud of unlight. I cannot aim for a spider I cannot see, no matter how giant it is."

"I think I can see them," said Aredhel. "Inside the cloud."

Ecthelion stared into the unlight. At first, all he could see were vague shapes, reminiscent of childhood nightmares, but then the shapes got clearer, until he could see legs like twisted tree trunks, and multi-faceted insectile eyes—but no hairy spider bodies. He strained, trying to guess whether the visions were real, or a trick of unlight, until the edge of the cloud tensed and billowed, like the surface of an overfilled water-skin. His fingers closed on his spear as the darkness burst, releasing a shadowy shape far more repulsive than a spider: instead of a rounded, regular abdomen, it had a shapeless mass, in places dark as unlight, in places revoltingly pale.

Glorfindel slapped Aredhel's horse, causing it to back away. "Get behind us!" he shouted, before grabbing for his own saddle. Ecthelion tried to ride forward to cover him as he mounted, but both their horses were panicking now. He fought to regain control.

The dark shape towered over Glorfindel as he faced it on foot, blade raised high. Ecthelion yelled and threw his sword at the monster's head. He did not see the effect: his horse had reared, spinning in place. As they turned, Ecthelion could see other, smaller, spiders approaching. One lurched, pierced by a white-fletched arrow. He saw Glorfindel again, briefly—still standing—and felt increasingly helpless. While his horse trashed around in terror, he could do nothing more than keep the animal from bolting. He could not even prevent the spiders from killing his mount beneath him. Ecthelion would not let that happen: he tossed his spear clear away and half-jumped, half-fell from his saddle and into a shoulder roll.

The rocky ground slammed into his back. He looked up into the sky, too stunned to breathe, until the spider loomed above him, now larger than ever and far more hideous, clawing at the air with upraised limbs.

There was no time to think about how hard it is to move while winded; Ecthelion threw himself in the direction of his spear, and got it pointing nearly upward by the time the monster struck. Soon, he was crouching under a hideous flopping thing, every spasm threatening to rip the spear from his hands. He held on, pelted by gore, until the creature shuddered and stilled. Then he crawled out, dragging his spear behind him, and stood up. He staggered, stabbed at something small and nasty, staggered again, and saw Glorfindel.

The sight made him feel like singing. Glorfindel was radiant, a golden figure in all the murk, dancing quickly in and out of the reach of several spiders, some of which were starting to resemble archery butts. His brightness was a beacon of hope; the spiders seemed to shrink from it, just as they shrunk from his sharp sword. But there were so many of the creatures! It was the archetypal battle of light and dark, the battle Ecthelion himself longed to join. He did start singing then—a song of the first coming of the sun-—and he leapt forward to take his place at Glorfindel's side.

They made their stand together, not side-by-side or back-to-back, but both turning in place; Ecthelion, with his greater reach, poked at the bigger spiders, while Glorfindel sliced at the smaller ones. Although this was not a technique they had ever practiced, they worked together well: trusting in each other's skill, aware of one another as good warriors should be, thrilled to be moving in such harmony. The moment when all their opponents were finally motionless came as a shock. They looked out over the valley, at the disappearing shreds of dark fog, and turned towards each other, grinning.

This time they did embrace, fully and in genuine happiness. Also, in a sort of innocence, at least at first: after a few seconds Ecthelion became aware of Glorfindel's hipbone against his body, of the strong back beneath his hands. He could never understand why, when all warriors had the same tapering shape, Glorfindel seemed to look—and, apparently, feel—particularly good. He would have to ask Glorfindel whether he did any special back exercises.

"Oh." Glorfindel froze. Ecthelion drew back in a panic, afraid that he had betrayed himself somehow; but he saw that Glorfindel was looking past him, and turned to see a horse motionless on the ground, raked by spider claws.

"Yours got away, I think," said Glorfindel. Ecthelion remembered his fall, and noticed the pain in his back. It was true: his horse was nowhere to be seen. There was a hope that it had escaped being webbed and dragged off somewhere. But no such hope for Glorfindel.

Ecthelion put his arm around Glorfindel and squeezed his shoulder lightly. They stood there together in silence until the others joined them.

"Thirty spiders, including those two huge monstrosities," said Aredhel, once they had collected all the arrows and other scattered equipment. "Not bad, considering we suffered no real injuries. Pity about the horses. We will have to double up on our way back to the forest."

The forest! This unexpected evidence of common sense surprised Ecthelion.

"Yes, we can rest in the forest, find fresh water..." Aredhel was looking very thoughtful. "Perhaps catch some wild horses. Or deer. Or even moose." She remounted. "Come on then, Ecthelion."

It took Ecthelion a moment to realize that she meant for him to ride behind her. He handed her his spear and climbed up, placing one awkward arm around her waist, while Glorfindel joined Egalmoth. Ecthelion thought he saw him glance at Aredhel with longing, as if he were wishing himself in Ecthelion's place.

"Tell me, Ecthelion," said Aredhel, a few minutes into the ride. "Is there anyone you... care for, waiting back in Gondolin?"

"No," said Ecthelion, regretting the truth of that statement for more than just the usual reasons.

"You and Glorfindel both, then. You virtuous warrior types... I daresay you find it difficult to relate to most women, who share none of your interests. Oh! But I am overjoyed that you are my brothers-in-arms on this great adventure..."

She continued in this vein for some time, her voice disturbingly playful. Ecthelion distracted himself from her chatter, and from the pain in his back, by watching the dark clouds overhead turn into ordinary rainclouds. By the time they reached the north edge of the woods, it was beginning to drizzle.

 

 

They made camp. To keep the rain off as they slept, they wove branches together to form two hunters' shelters: one for Aredhel, and one for any sleeping members of her escort.

"Right, then," Egalmoth said when they were done. "I might as well take first watch; I want to straighten my gleaned arrows." He sat down beside Aredhel, who was already looking through hers under a makeshift canopy made out of cloaks.

Ecthelion sought out a stream and washed off the spider gore, wincing whenever he touched his bruises. His stiff shoulder needed attention, if it was to be of any use tomorrow; as it was, he could not even get his shirt back on. He crawled into the shelter to fetch his medical supplies before remembering that they had been inside his saddlebag.

He was considering alternatives when the branches covering the entrance rustled and parted, revealing Glorfindel.

"Ah, Glorfindel—I was just tending to my shoulder," said Ecthelion. "You would not happen to have any balm, would you? Mine is probably inside a spider by now. Or at least inside a spider cocoon."

"One moment." Glorfindel slipped in and rummaged around in his bag. "Here, turn your back towards the light." His touch was gentler than Ecthelion's own had been. "Well. Interesting. It must have been all those rocks. Do you want me to... I mean, perhaps you should ask Egalmoth to help you. He would enjoy seeing all the colours you have on here."

It was a terrible joke. No wonder Glorfindel had sounded so uncomfortable when he made it, almost as uncomfortable as Ecthelion himself was feeling at his touch. Egalmoth seemed like a much safer option, until Ecthelion remembered that he was sitting beside Aredhel. Considering her recent behaviour, it was almost certain that she would offer her assistance; he did not want to put Glorfindel through the jealousy this would, no doubt, elicit.

"Egalmoth is busy," he said. "Would you mind?"

Glorfindel settled in behind him. Ecthelion was really happy that eye contact was impossible. The physical contact was enough to contend with, both because of the unavoidable pain of it, and because of the equally unavoidable pleasure of being touched by the object of his sick desires. He tried to focus on other, less attractive, things. Well, there was one such topic he wanted to discuss.

"Glorfindel," he said. "I just wanted you to know that I find Aredhel's recent attentions... puzzling. I mean, I have done nothing to encourage them, and I am not interested in her."

"I did not think you were." Glorfindel's hands moved down his back, pressing so lightly that the pain was easy to ignore. "But why do you want me to know this, exactly?"

"Well, I am quite aware of your... feelings." The pressure ceased; Ecthelion was almost sure that Glorfindel had paused in mid-breath. He realized that bringing up his friend's unrequited passion was inconsiderate, but it was too late to stop. "I mean, I know that you have some interest in the lady, and I just wanted you to know that I—"

Glorfindel laughed, a little oddly. "You believe that I am interested in her? Valar, but that is too strange. I mean, Finwe's Grandchild... I would sooner court a Balrog." He exhaled, and his hands resumed their motions. "No, wait, that was discourteous. Would it be better to say that I believe Aredhel would sooner court a Balrog? She is always saying that you cannot have true passion without irritation."

Ecthelion felt dizzy. His mental landscape was shifting confusingly, and then there were the hands on his back. "But the way you have been acting: paying her so much attention, speaking to her of love..."

"Well, I do know her quite well, and what I know evokes my compassion. She has ambition, but no direction. She is proud, and all the more lonely for her pride, because she views her brother's vassals as her inferiors; so, she has no-one to love except an overprotective older brother who will not let her seek the excitement she craves, and a niece who is happy with the sort of life that bores her."

Ecthelion's back tingled as the balm began to work. He shivered. "You do sound fond of her."

"I understand her, but... Ecthelion, she is risking all our lives for a frivolous reason, traveling to visit a cousin she vaguely likes in the hope that time has intensified her feelings. It is, of course, quite possible that recent historical events have made a Feanorion more irritating, but I do not believe love works like that. And surely you have seen how she baits me?" Glorfindel sighed. "Truly, she has taught me that it is possible to feel irritation without passion."

The pain of the bruises was almost gone now, its memory growing as faint and ridiculous as the memory of Ecthelion's suspicions. "In that case, you have been demonstrating remarkable restraint. As I have not. I suppose that explains why she shows interest in me now; she must have noticed my irritation."

"Perhaps. More likely, it is your fighting skills." Glorfindel shifted. "And that aloof and slightly rude air of yours. A lot of people find that attractive. And your looks, of course."

"What about my looks? Do I remind her of some other cousin?"

"No, I was referring to, you know, the whole 'fairest of the Noldor' business," said Glorfindel evasively.

Ecthelion had heard that description applied to himself often enough, but this was absurd. "Come on, you know as well as I do that Pengolodh only calls me that because I always pay my share of the beer money."

"You mean that!" Glorfindel sounded almost outraged. "Do you never look at yourself in a mirror?"

"Certainly, when I need to fix my hair or my clothes. So, I am well aware that I look quite normal."

"Normal? But what about your jawline, and the way your... Never mind. If you do not believe me, ask someone else. Ask Aredhel herself. At any rate, I think I am done here." Glorfindel's hands came to rest on Ecthelion's shoulders. "You know, there is one thing I have been meaning to ask you—do you do any particular exercises for your lower back?"

They discussed the finer points of weight training while Ecthelion dressed again, his arm moving freely now. Then, they stretched out on the ground and fell silent.

Lying beside Glorfindel in darkness and privacy, their shoulders almost touching, Ecthelion realized that, even though Glorfindel was clearly mistaken in his interpretation of that ridiculous 'fairest of the Noldor' epithet, the nature of his mistake implied that he found Ecthelion objectively attractive. Ecthelion was disgusted by how happy this made him feel. Worse, his joy was making him delusional, for he was beginning to think that he had detected a certain sensuality in Glorfindel's touch. He replayed their conversation in his head, giving it inappropriate, warm overtones. The fantasy made him long to reach over and take Glorfindel's hand.

And do what? What disturbed him about this impulse was that he had not even intended to put the hand anywhere specific on his body. Of course, on one level, grabbing another man's hand was far less unnatural than grabbing any one of several appealing alternatives—just a friendly gesture between brothers-in-arms—but Ecthelion knew he had not meant it that way. Lust is bad enough, but lust is a hungry creature that can be fed and satisfied for a while. The more tender emotions weave an entrapping cocoon from which there is no easy escape.

No, far better to feel lust, unnatural as it may be. Ecthelion summoned forth his usual irritation, knowing that, for him, like for Aredhel, irritation was close to passion. Rather like friction, which is, after all, a form of irritation. He turned towards the wall of the shelter, pressing himself into the hard ground, firm as another warrior's body, and mustered his harsher fantasies. How often had he longed to say, "Kneel down before me and let me grab you by the hair?" To shock Glorfindel out of his complacent virtue. To see him helpless before unnatural advances, overwhelmed with dark pleasure. Flushed, but not with embarrassment. Or even with embarrassment, for there is a thrill to be found in discomfiting one normally so smug.

The fantasies worked; Ecthelion could not longer remember what he had been trying to forget. He decided to go outside for a bit. He crawled to the entrance, taking great care not to disturb his tentmate, and stood up in the drizzle.

"I am so glad to find you awake!" Egalmoth was heading towards the shelter. "I think I can see more spiders heading our way. I told you we should have left that tree alone."

His words checked Ecthelion's excitement; a single look out over the valley quenched it entirely. The spiders were clearly visible: a mass of unpleasant shapes, darker than the night.

"I have been watching them for some time," said Aredhel. "They are smarter than yesterday's Orcs. I think they are mustering their forces before attacking."

Glorfindel joined them. "Perhaps they are simply attempting to keep us out of the valley. We could try moving away along the edge of the wood. Could they follow us in here, I wonder?"

Aredhel's nod was barely visible in the darkness. "There are old spider-tracks in this wood."

"Yes, that is true," said Egalmoth. "Now that I know what to look for, I see their traces everywhere. There must be hundreds of the creatures living in the valley. This trip could turn into a serious military campaign."

Ecthelion reviewed the odds. "We cannot risk it," he said, certain that his friends were reaching the same conclusion. "We must fall back towards the city."

"What, give up?" Aredhel's eyes glittered. "Never."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0\. In case anyone cares about the geography of all this, the Orc battle takes place in Dimbar, near the Brithiach. So Glorfindel washes his hair in the Sirion. The crossing of Dimbar, which probably takes a while, is dismissed in a single sentence. The story ends in the forest of Neldoreth.
> 
> 1\. The "fairest of the Noldor" business: this is how Ecthelion is described in 'The Fall Of Gondolin'. Which of the possible meanings of the word 'fair' was intended is left up to the reader. He is also described as"the fairest voice [...] and the most skilled in musics of all the Gondothlim." Yep, total Marty Stu.
> 
> 2\. Glorfindel, on the other hand, "was the best beloved of the Gondothlim, save it be Ecthelion, but who shall choose."


	5. The Incident

The night air was full of rustling sounds. Some came from the leaves up above, while others drifted in from the valley where the spiders were now gathering, just beyond the edge of the forest. Ecthelion felt surprised by how similar all the noises were; he had been expecting the leaves to sound less evil than the spiders, somehow. He eyed the trees with suspicion. Behind him, Egalmoth launched into yet another attempt to goad Aredhel into action.

"It is undeniable that giant spiders have a better grasp of tactics than panicked Orcs." Egalmoth spoke like a scholar addressing a difficult pupil. "However, I would really like to know where Elves fit into this hierarchy. I want to believe that we are somewhat wiser than spiders, but our current behaviour leads me to suspect that we are dumber than Orcs. At least the orcs retreated while they had the chance."

"It is the spiders who are foolish, for plotting to attack their betters." Aredhel's voice carried no conviction; the moment she was done speaking, she disappeared into the forest.

"There she goes again, visiting the horses," said Egalmoth. "Pacing back and forth is a sure sign of stress. I do believe the valour of Finwe's Grandchild is faltering at last."

"Perhaps she is merely disturbed by our mutinous attitudes," said Glorfindel.

"Why should she be?" asked Ecthelion. "It is not as if we are going to overpower her and carry her back to Gondolin in a sack."

"Maybe she does not know that," said Egalmoth. "It sounds like exactly the sort of thing she would do, if the circumstances were reversed."

Ecthelion had to agree. "And if she had a large enough sack."

"Well, seeing as we cannot actually use physical force, no matter how tempting it sounds," said Glorfindel, "perhaps we should try courtesy again. Courtesy and guile. We could tell Aredhel that we want to return to the city only to reequip: to pick up more horses, more arrows, perhaps even more warriors. And if she says that Lord Turgon is unlikely to support a second expedition once he hears of the danger, then, well, I thought we could tell her that we are willing to conceal the danger from Lord Turgon. Surely..." He turned towards the valley. "Surely lying to her is a lesser evil."

"It is worth a try," said Egalmoth. "Ecthelion, she seems to like you best, right now. Would you be our spokesman?"

Ecthelion believed in getting unpleasant tasks over with quickly. His steps were brisk as he approached the clearing concealing the horses.

Or, more accurately, the horse.

Egalmoth's mount looked rather lonely as it walked up to Ecthelion and nudged his shoulder. There was a length of black-and-white silk tied around its neck: one of Aredhel's scarves, strangely marked. Once Ecthelion had untied it, he saw that the markings were elaborate, aristocratic tengwar, barely readable in the moonlight. He ran back to the others.

"Aredhel is gone," he said. "She took her horse. But she has left us this farewell note."

He shook out the scarf, and started to read it out loud.

"Dear Brother."

Ecthelion paused. Reading a letter meant for another was clearly wrong, but he was far too angry to care. "Well, she did call us her brothers-in-arms," he said. "I will go on."

"The Valley Of Dreadful Death proves perilous. I have no wish to risk the lives of your men any further; besides, one may travel more swiftly and safely than four. I have, therefore, decided to dismiss the Guards—"

"What?" Egalmoth clutched at the fabric. "Does she truly expect us to turn back and deliver this... fashion accessory... to our Lord? To let her go on alone?"

Ecthelion let him take the note; its remaining contents did not really matter, and the three of them had to act quickly. "One of us must take the horse, ride out after Aredhel, and offer what aid he can," he said. "The other two should follow together, with all possible speed."

"No." Glorfindel's tone was uncharacteristically abrupt. He was gazing out into the valley. "Look, the spiders are heading east. They must have noticed her. Perhaps she is even drawing them off on purpose to give us a better chance, hoping to outrun them. We have to protect her, to distract the spiders. We have to attack."

And so they did, without delay. While Egalmoth climbed a tree, Glorfindel and Ecthelion ran out into the valley, yelling battle cries. In the darkness, it was difficult to tell how many of the spiders responded to the challenge, but some certainly did, for soon the two of them were facing an odorous crowd of dark shapes.

At first, they fought together as efficiently as before, and the experience was still intoxicating. Ecthelion found himself becoming rather skilled at skewering the smaller creatures and retracting his spear rapidly and with the minimum of gore. However, the larger spiders remained problematic: their thicker skins were harder to pierce, and their death throes were wilder. One flailing leg struck Ecthelion on the head, knocking him to the ground. As he lay there, something small attached itself to his left elbow. He had to punch the thing several times before it let go.

The rest of the battle was a blur. Ecthelion wandered around, sword in hand, cutting at shapes as they became increasingly visible, and hence increasingly disgusting. Dawn came, every bit as welcome as his occasional glimpses of Glorfindel—still fighting, still alive. The new light revealed that most of the remaining spiders were in far worse shape. He wondered briefly if any of them had experienced an unnatural desire for another spider, or for an Orc perhaps, but he walked around stabbing them anyway.

Once all the spiders had stopped twitching, Ecthelion walked up to Glorfindel, who was examining a wound on his thigh. The blood leaking from it frothed in a strange manner. Poison, then. Ecthelion would have been very concerned, but, fortunately, his dreams had prepared him for just this situation. Perhaps Lorien knew what he was doing, after all.

"We have to drain the poison," said Ecthelion. "Suck it out."

Glorfindel looked down at the bubbling mess. "I cannot... Oh. You mean you." He looked around, at the ground, at the spider corpses. "I need to sit down." The large corpse he chose for his seat squelched when he lowered himself onto it. He leaned forward slightly and let his hands fall across his lap.

"Well, how do we do this?" he asked.

Ecthelion crouched down beside him. The injury itself did not look very dangerous—it resembled a very shallow arrow wound—but its edges were beginning to turn an unhealthy yellow. As gently as he could, Ecthelion pressed down on the flesh around it, hoping to halt the spread of the poison. Then he placed his lips over the wound and drew out a mouthful of blood. It made his lips and tongue tingle before he spat it out onto the ground, feeling vaguely nostalgic for the Sindar of Doriath. In all, the situation was far less erotic than his dreams had suggested, in spite of the pleasant feel of the muscle beneath his fingers.

He had repeated the whole process a dozen times when he realized that Glorfindel was muttering to himself.

"The Place of the King. The Place of the Gods. The Place of the Fountain."

Had the poison caused delirium already? Ecthelion emptied his mouth. "Glorfindel, are you well? You seem to be listing the major squares of Gondolin."

"Yes, so I am," said Glorfindel. "You see, I find that it keeps my mind off things."

Ecthelion felt a stab of concern. "Am I hurting you?"

"No. It's just that I feel a bit... odd," said Glorfindel. "It must be the poison."

Come to think of it, Ecthelion was feeling a bit odd himself. His body seemed slightly numb, except for his mouth, which was itching. He rubbed at it absentmindedly before returning to his task.

"What on Arda are you two doing?" Egalmoth's voice came from very far away.

Glorfindel's leg shifted slightly. "I have a spider bite," he said. "Ecthelion is trying to get the poison out."

"By putting it in his mouth? But poison is, well, poisonous. Has he been hit on the head? Oh, never mind, I can see the dent in his helmet from here."

The phrases floated past Ecthelion's ears like patches of unlight across a rocky valley. Then the dark patches seemed to drift straight into his mind, and merge there into a dense fog, like unlight does. Soon, all was dark.

 

 

Ecthelion dreamed that there were arms around him, strong as bands of mithril, but much warmer. He knew it was a dream because he felt no irritation and no shame even when he realized that the arms were Glorfindel's. In this dream, they were in the hunters' shelter again, but it was not night: sunlight was coming in through the leafy walls. In spite of the light, Ecthelion felt chilled, and very grateful for the body heat at his back. His chest was cold, though. He turned around.

"You are awake." Glorfindel's smile was the one Ecthelion had learned to associate with Aredhel, the one tinged with sadness. In the dream it was, of course, meant for Ecthelion and Ecthelion only. But Glorfindel was pulling away now, even as Ecthelion responded to his embrace.

"You must drink something," said Glorfindel.

Maddening dream Glorfindel with his ridiculous games. Was this some reference to the poison Ecthelion had consumed? Glorfindel's thigh, neatly bandaged just where the real wound had been, alluded to it already. Or was it one of those clumsy dream innuendoes? Ecthelion looked at the area above the bandage with anticipation, waiting for Glorfindel to strip, but his hopes were dashed when he was handed a flask instead. He took a sip. The cool liquid made him shudder even though, as he now realized, he was dressed warmly, and wrapped in two cloaks.

"Are you cold still?" Glorfindel touched his hand. "You were near frozen when we brought you here—we suspected that it was an effect of the paralyzing poison, but it was rather worrying. That is why I... why I am here with you. We used to do that during the Crossing, share the heat of our bodies."

"Yes, I remember huddling together for warmth." Ecthelion set the empty flask aside. "Never with you, though; I hardly knew you then. But we know each other now." He moved towards Glorfindel and slid his arms around him again. Glorfindel tensed for a moment, then reciprocated. Ecthelion felt warmer at once.

"I remember visiting your camp to listen to you sing." Glorfindel spoke into Ecthelion's hair. "I know now that you sounded terrible by your current standards, but your singing cheered me. It was inspiring just to know that some among us were still willing to devote energy to something other than mere survival. I remember thinking about how cold you looked... and... Of course, we were all cold, back then."

The real Glorfindel never babbled like this. Anyway, talk of those miserable days on the Ice sounded very strange, coming from someone so warm, so obviously healthy, so... well-built. Ecthelion ran a hand across Glorfindel's back. The muscles under his fingers were too tight to be real. Glorfindel seemed to be made of sun-warmed metal, hard and immobile.

"You do not feel cold now," said Ecthelion. His mouth was at Glorfindel's neck, lips moving against hot skin. He pulled in closer. The feel of the firm body pressed against his own made his head spin with excitement, in spite of his suspicion that, in reality, he was simply sleeping on hard ground again. At least it was a particularly fortuitously chosen piece of ground, with largeish rocks in all the anatomically appropriate places.

"Ecthelion." Glorfindel jerked away. "If you are still cold, we should probably go outside, where you can sit by the fire."

Ecthelion did not feel up to facing the piles of singing spider corpses the outer dreamland would probably contain. "I like it here," he said.

"Well, I need to go outside, at any rate." Glorfindel sat up.

Clearly, this dream Glorfindel was more temperamental than usual. But then, he was also more impressively built than usual: those anatomically suggestive rocks had implied it, and now, as Ecthelion studied Glorfindel's breeches, he found visual confirmation—and felt himself grow almost equally impressive in turn. He realized then that, if he let Glorfindel leave, this dream was going to prove even more painfully frustrating than the last one. Well, he would not let that happen, would not play any more silly counting games. It was his own dream, and he could be as direct as he liked. Ecthelion looked Glorfindel straight in the eye, eyebrows raised.

"You cannot deal with that outside." He flicked his gaze downward. "Let me help you in here."

It was absolutely amazing that someone who would decapitate Orcs without a second's thought could still turn red for no good reason. Glorfindel shook his head mutely, hair swaying against his flushed cheeks, and shrunk back against the shelter wall.

"You want me to." Ecthelion rose up on his elbow, ignoring a strange twinge of pain.

"You know, then." Glorfindel looked away. One strand of hair had fallen across his half-open lips; it trembled slightly as he shuddered. "I admit that I do want it, but—"

Ecthelion silenced him by touching the bandage, then sliding his hand upwards. "Lie back down," he said.

Their eyes met again. Glorfindel's looked almost green in the leaf-filtered sunlight. His pupils were huge, unfocused. He lowered himself to the ground without further protest.

How Ecthelion longed to see the real Glorfindel in this state: breathlessly compliant, stripped of his smug serenity. At least in this dream he could strip him of even more. He tugged on Glorfindel's clothing, baring him from mid-thigh to mid-chest. Yes, this dream Glorfindel certainly was impressive. Ecthelion reached over to stroke his most imposing part, which responded by twitching in a most gratifying manner. He closed his hand.

Glorfindel felt warm against his palm, prompting him to realize that he himself was no longer cold. But how could he feel anything but overheated when he was looking at all that exposed skin, and seeing the muscle beneath it tense with the effort to keep still? Ecthelion's hand moved with the practiced ease of the lonely nights when he could not help himself, in spite of his knowledge that what he did—and, worse, what he imagined as he did it—was wrong. But now it was his tormentor's turn to struggle against desire, and lose. The long muscle in Glorfindel's thigh shifted as his legs slid apart slightly, allowing his tense body to arch upward. The new pose, with its contrast of obvious strength and vulnerability, affected Ecthelion like an intimate caress. He was suddenly uncomfortably aware of his arousal, of the constraining clothes that felt so wrong against his skin. But when he paused to free himself, Glorfindel moaned desperately. That single sad plea tugged at Ecthelion's heart. He could not refuse it.

"Ecthelion, if you... I..." Glorfindel was looking down at himself, at Ecthelion's rapidly moving hand, with a sort of terrified fascination: so might the early Elves have looked when they first beheld the sea. His mouth was half-open. Ecthelion was tempted to kiss him, on the lips or anywhere, but that would have meant losing sight of this dream-vision, so wonderfully detailed and inspiring that he felt almost undone just watching it. And then it was too late, for Glorfindel turned his face into the wall, shivered, and spent across his stomach.

Ecthelion, who had expected a loud cry, was so surprised that he withdrew his arm. For a moment, he just looked at Glorfindel's flushed chest, splattered with pale liquid, and at his tangled hair. Then he moved closer, to kiss and caress and claim his own relief—but, in the same instant, Glorfindel grabbed a handful of leaves and turned away.

The rapid efficiency with which he cleaned himself and straightened his clothing stunned Ecthelion. He felt rejected and cheated, but was not sure how to protest. When Glorfindel turned back to face him, Ecthelion's confusion deepened, for Glorfindel's expression was very odd. It made Ecthelion think of young officers fresh from facing their first defeats on the field of battle.

"Tell me why you did that," said Glorfindel.

The easiest answers—'because you wanted me to' and 'because I wanted to'—seemed too obvious to be of use. "Is that a trick question?" asked Ecthelion.

"It was not a question."

No, it had been an order. Ecthelion's first impression had been wrong. This was no novice warrior, but an experienced captain facing a sudden reversal, surprised but not overwhelmed, trusting in his remaining reserves.

"Well, then, I did it because you wanted me to," said Ecthelion.

"But many people want you, and I seriously doubt you are always so... kind. Such things are not to be done lightly."

Faced with this serious, worthy Glorfindel, so much like the real one, Ecthelion was flooded with shame. This was all wrong—he never felt this way in his dreams. The shame was mingled with a dark dread. Was he awake or asleep? Had he committed an unspeakable act, or merely imagined it? He pinched his arm. When this hurt quite a lot, he tried something else: he crawled to the entrance and looked outside. The forest looked normal. Aredhel's shelter was exactly where it should have been; his spear and sword were leaning against it. There were no singing spiders in sight. No, his dreams were never quite this real.

Ecthelion sat back, and stared down at his hands. He could not look at Glorfindel. Self-disgust paralyzed him.

"What have I done?" he whispered.

"Yes, I thought you might come to feel that way. Like I said, such things are not to be done lightly, not by someone like you. I am sorry that I cannot offer you comfort. I doubt you would want it from me, in any case." Glorfindel did not sound like himself at all. "Now, excuse me. I should go." He slipped past Ecthelion and out into the forest.

As soon as his mortification let him move again, Ecthelion followed.

 

 

He found Egalmoth and Glorfindel at the edge of the valley, beside a flaming pile of spider corpses.

"I was just telling Glorfindel," said Egalmoth, "that I have found Aredhel's tracks. When we attacked the spiders, she headed directly east. We can start following her as soon as the two of you feel strong enough to walk; right now, you both look rather unsteady."

Ecthelion tried to focus on the logistics of it all. "Glorfindel should take the horse," he said. "He has that wound on his leg."

"You think I should ride on before you?" asked Glorfindel. "I would be happy to, but we have already decided that we should stick together, now that we know more about that poison. A lone rider seems more likely to get bitten and webbed."

"At least that is our hope." Egalmoth smiled. "Just imagine the joy of finding Aredhel packed in a spider-cocoon. We would not even need a sack, then."

Ecthelion felt so miserable that he could not enjoy that thought.

They set out soon afterwards, following the hoofprints of Aredhel's horse down the road that separated forest from valley. They had only just found their pace when they noticed the first spiders, scuttling around in the distance. It was an unnerving sight—or, at least, it would have been, had Ecthelion not been preoccupied with even more unnerving thoughts.

At first, he could think of nothing other than the shame and degradation of his fall. His self-respect had hinged on the belief that there was a real difference between thought and deed; now that the Incident in the shelter had proven that this difference was an illusion, Ecthelion felt more evil than the spiders, which now seemed to be following them, although at a distance.

As the sun rose high in the sky, his thoughts turned more practical. He realized that he would have to make things right with Glorfindel—but how? He could think of no reasonable excuse for his actions. His first idea, "I was thinking about Idril the whole time," was wrong on several levels. For one, it was insulting to Glorfindel. Then, it was vaguely insulting to Idril, who happened to be Glorfindel's cousin. And, finally, it was obviously the greatest lie since Melkor's speeches in Valinor. Ecthelion was no expert when it came to maidens, but even he knew that the Incident would not translate.

Only when the sunlight softened and the shadows grew long on the ground before him did it occur to Ecthelion that Glorfindel's behaviour had been just as peculiar as his own, and just as hard to excuse. For who could he have seen in Ecthelion's place? He had told Aredhel he was not interested in anyone back in the city, and he was certainly not interested in Aredhel herself.

The implications were disturbing.

He considered the matter from another angle. Glorfindel's recent statements made it quite clear that he was no stranger to passionate longing. And that the focus of his feelings would be a warrior, someone high-minded and noble. Or, at least, a warrior who appeared to be high-minded and noble.

Ecthelion's thoughts hovered around a strange conclusion, making him feel rather dizzy. He reviewed all the evidence: Glorfindel's warm attention, the recent embarrassment and strain, and the name 'Ecthelion' said quite clearly during the Incident. It really seemed as if—

But no, that could not be right—not just because Ecthelion was utterly unworthy, but because, if his conclusion were true, then he would be even less worthy than he had supposed. For it would mean that more than just his own soul was at stake, that he had caused sorrow to someone who deserved only happiness. When he remembered the tense voice Glorfindel had used in the shelter, his clipped phrases, Ecthelion found it hard to breathe.

"Ecthelion?" Egalmoth was standing before him. "Why have you stopped walking? Is your spider bite bothering you?"

"Spider bite?" Ecthelion followed Egalmoth's eyes and noticed that his left forearm was neatly bandaged. "No. I never noticed it. I... seem to be very bad at noticing things, these days."

Glorfindel caught up with them. "Maybe Ecthelion does have a concussion," he said to Egalmoth. "He has been acting quite unlike himself." Turning aside, he busied himself with the horse.

Ecthelion wanted to speak to him, to apologize, to explain—but he did not know what to say, or how to say it to someone who would not even look at him. So, he simply said he was fine, and the three of them moved on, ignoring the growing crowd of spiders out in the valley.

 

 

At sunset, the spiders drew closer, bringing with them their protective unlight. Soon, small clouds were drifting across the guards' path, so that, at times, they were walking half-blind. An attack seemed imminent. Egalmoth mounted his horse, and they all drew together.

"Ecthelion." Glorfindel was a ghostly figure by Ecthelion's side. "I think... I hope we can fight side by side, as before."

"Of course." Ecthelion struggled for other words, the ones that would make everything right. Before he could find them, the spiders struck, charging out of the darkness around them.

Ecthelion put it all out of his mind: the guilt, the doubt, the likelihood of death. To his great relief, Glorfindel seemed to do the same, for they worked together at least as well as ever, anticipating each other's moves, trusting one another without constraint. It felt glorious to rediscover this harmony, and Ecthelion decided that dying side by side would not be so bad—at least until Glorfindel cried out and reeled against him, shield ripped to shreds. Then he forgot all such frivolous conceits; all that remained was the idea that he had to defend what he held dear, all that was good in the world, and that Glorfindel was its shining avatar. The world narrowed to a swirling mess of shining eyes, spears, and spider claws. Ecthelion fought on without thinking.

When he came to himself again, he was leaning against a tree and all his opponents were dead. Glorfindel was kneeling a few paces away and cradling his left arm, no longer a symbol, but quite obviously a creature of flesh and blood and pain. There were spiders all around him, a few still twitching. When Ecthelion tried to go help him, he sat right down instead, gasping with pain of his own: his right leg was ripped up badly.

They did not speak; they were too weak to manage it. Silently, they bound up each other's wounds as best they could, and ate some lembas to aid the healing. Then, they moved fifty agonizing yards deeper into the forest and built a small campfire. 

"Egalmoth?" Ecthelion asked as soon as he felt slightly better.

"I think his horse bolted," said Glorfindel. "Perhaps he has gone after Aredhel."

"I would rather he returned here. I could ride his horse then, and we could all go after her."

Glorfindel smiled weakly. "Are you turning into Finwe's grandchild? I know your battle rage is impressive, but even you cannot hope to fight spiders on one leg."

"I thought you were an optimist."

"I am an optimist. That is why I believe that we will be able to rest here. And that, tomorrow, you will be able to lean on me and walk without either of us half-fainting with each step. And that nothing much more will attack us, and that we will make it out of this valley alive."

Such beliefs were optimistic indeed, as Ecthelion was well aware. "I have one more hope for your list: that Lord Turgon will be understanding, and will at least let us say goodbye to our friends before placing us on permanent sewer-cleaning duty."

"Maybe you can use your connections to find us a particularly cushy sewer?"

The humour was feeble, but its return signaled that they were starting to think about more than basic survival. Other strong drives were returning, as well. Glorfindel combed out his hair with one awkward hand, and, looking at him, Ecthelion felt the first stirrings of his tormented conscience.

"You should rest," he said. "I will take first watch."

Glorfindel agreed. He stretched out on the ground and turned towards the flames, but his eyes remained wakeful, even as time passed, marked by the throbbing ache in Ecthelion's leg. Was he dwelling on the Incident? Ecthelion decided to speak, to see if he could offer any solace, even if the perfect words still eluded him.

"Glorfindel, I am sorry," he said. "About this morning, I mean."

"I, too, am sorry." Glorfindel turned onto his back, face open to the stars. "More sorry than I can say. I should have been more careful, knowing how you feel about such things. I do want to thank you for your understanding, for the compassion you showed me. But I still think you should not have done it, not at such cost to yourself. Not at such cost to..."

Ecthelion stared at his face, calm and composed in the starlight. A much-watched face, now utterly alien, speaking very strange words. One thing was clear: there was a rift between the two of them, and bridging it was his responsibility. Ignoring his leg, he started to pull himself around the campfire.

"Ecthelion? You should not be moving." Glorfindel sat up and raised his good hand, as if to halt him.

"Yes, I should. There is something I have to tell you." Ecthelion knew that his words made no sense. It made no sense to reach for Glorfindel's hand, either, but he did it anyway. His mind went blank at the touch. All he could say was, "These things are not easy to face, or explain."

Glorfindel looked at their linked hands, his face still impassive. "Well, we are both supposed to be very brave."

"True." Ecthelion sought out his courage. "Here is what I want to say: I thought this morning was a dream. A good dream. I have such dreams often. I... " He shut his eyes. "I am very aware of your finer qualities, and then I have these... unnatural tendencies. I react to you very strongly. Too strongly."

Glorfindel's hand slipped out of his, and for a long moment Ecthelion knew, knew with absolute certainty that he had misjudged the situation. But then he felt a light touch on his face.

"Then it was neither poison fever nor cool compassion?"

Ecthelion could only shake his head; he had exhausted his store of valour. It was Glorfindel's turn to be brave. Glorfindel's fingers moved to the back of Ecthelion's head and pulled him in for a kiss.

Not to respond would have been a most profound lie; Ecthelion leaned in towards Glorfindel and, just for this one time in his life, let himself go. He tried to drink in Glorfindel's warmth, his kindness, his bright courage, and even his pain. He felt Glorfindel match him, felt a hand tighten on his neck, a reminder of strength. In that moment, they seemed to understand each other perfectly, as on the battlefield.

They pulled apart, and inhaled in unison for a while, until their breathing was slow and even again.

"Not compassion, then," said Glorfindel.

"No," said Ecthelion. "Do you feel eased now? Will you be able to rest?"

"I feel eased, yes, but also rather confused." But Glorfindel's brow was quite clear, and he wore a serene smile. Ecthelion realized that he himself was grinning like an idiot. When he forced his mouth to relax, he noticed that his jaw was aching in an unaccustomed way, whether from the smile or the kiss he could not tell.

The kiss. It was hard to believe that it had happened, harder yet to convince himself that it could never happen again. But, of course, Glorfindel's unlooked-for feelings changed nothing; Right and Wrong were just as they had ever been. When Ecthelion felt Glorfindel's hand touch his, he flinched away.

"You spoke once of virtuous warriors honing their honour together," he said. "We will have to try that, I think. This is wrong."

"I see. Oh, I see." Glorfindel's face took on a military aspect once more: he looked like a skilled strategist analyzing a complicated new situation. Then he smiled again. "Yes, I can see your point, but I am too tired to talk right now. We will discuss this later."

Ecthelion moved back to his post and watched Glorfindel drift off. He felt afraid; not because their situation was perilous, hopeless even, but because he knew that his war with his unnatural desires was about to get even harder than the ongoing fight against the spiders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0\. I am quite aware that my version of events is not entirely consistent with that presented in the Silmarillion. But wait until Chapter Seven!
> 
> 1\. Regarding the venom sucking scene: most modern authorities agree that this is a Bad Idea, because the mouth is full of germs. But germs aside, it is still probably a bad idea. Some sources claim that it is impossible to get a significant amount of poison out that way (I saw a study that said you usually get 


	6. Athrabeth Glorfindel ah Ecthelion

When he first heard the voices, Ecthelion could not decide whether he was dreaming or waking. His memories of the previous day's events suggested a third possibility: that he had died in his sleep. He considered the matter. On the one hand, the ground where he lay was strewn with scratchy twiglike objects, and this was not how he imagined the halls of Mandos. On the other hand, he had, until recently, supposed Lorien to be a reliable source of first-aid advice, only to be proven quite wrong. So perhaps Mandos was a slob. But could a dead person think such impious thoughts?

Ecthelion needed more information. He opened his eyes, stretched—and gasped with pain. He had forgotten about the leg. Well, at least it proved that he was both alive and awake.

"Let me take a look at that." Egalmoth knelt down by his side. Ecthelion stared at him, confused by his presence, until he noticed his exhaustion and the dust that muted the colours of his outfit, making it look almost tasteful. Yes, Egalmoth looked exactly like a man who had spent the night riding around in the Valley. Ecthelion was about to ask him about his adventures when he noticed Glorfindel, and his emotions returned in a confusing whirl: joy over last night's epiphany, guilt over the Incident, and, finally, doubt as to whether either the epiphany or the Incident had actually taken place, for Glorfindel looked just as he always did—at least until he noticed Ecthelion's scrutiny, and smiled. The affection behind his smile was tangible: it radiated from him like heat from a flame. Ecthelion felt his guilt and doubt evaporate, even as he struggled to suppress this ludicrous over-reaction.

Fortunately, the hands now moving over his leg, prodding at every irritated nerve, helped pull him back to reality. Ignoring his thumping heart, Ecthelion turned to Egalmoth.

"Any news of Aredhel?" he asked.

"I followed her tracks for a while." Egalmoth scowled at Ecthelion's leg as if it were a poorly fletched arrow. "She rode on even after it got dark, with no thought for her horse. When I was sure no spiders were following her, I turned around. I expect she will be just fine, but if she is not... I know she is my lord's sister, but I am not willing to die for her. Besides, you two are my friends, and infinitely more worthy."

Ecthelion felt grateful towards Egalmoth, but also rather worried for him. "Lord Turgon will not be happy with you."

"Ah, he will get over it." Glorfindel joined them on the ground and offered Ecthelion his good hand: something to squeeze for comfort, an ordinary kindness to an injured comrade. The pain in Ecthelion's leg faded the moment their fingers met.

"You two seem rather cheerful." Egalmoth raised an eyebrow.

At this hint of suspicion, Ecthelion sobered at once. Glorfindel, meanwhile, turned his bright smile on Egalmoth.

"Well, we are all alive and together, which is surely good," he said. "Also, we have a horse, which is even better. And is it not wonderful that one of us, and only one of us, has a serious leg injury? It allows us to avoid all those ridiculously noble debates as to who gets to ride."

He remained irrepressibly joyful while helping Ecthelion mount the horse—a difficult procedure involving a nearby tree. Ecthelion longed to tell him to be discreet, but could not see how to do so without appearing even more suspicious. He resolved to be impassive enough for two, in the hope that Glorfindel would take the hint.

They soon set out westward, retracing their steps along the edge of the forest as fast as their injuries allowed, and hoping to reach the end of the Valley before they were attacked again. Each of them knew that any battle was almost certain to turn into a last stand. Ecthelion felt particularly helpless, for a skillful fighter needs his balance.

It was a tense, daylong race against the ever-increasing crowd of spiders gathering far on their right. As the sun descended up ahead, the creatures moved in closer, scuttling among the foul pools that, in the fading, reddish light, looked like pools of blood—or like puddles of spilt wine, Ecthelion decided, forcing himself into unaccustomed optimism. If he could not fight the creatures themselves, he would at least fight the despondency they caused.

"Look, Egalmoth," he said as brightly as he could. "The Valley looks just like your floor did during the farewell party. A good omen, surely."

"You would not be saying that if you had been obliged to clean that floor while nursing a pounding hangover." Egalmoth pretended to scowl, but there was a new lightness to his step.

Glorfindel, in contrast, was now limping slightly and wearing a pleased smile. "Do you know what would make this situation even more like Egalmoth's little gathering?"

Ecthelion decided that, in spite of Glorfindel's recent lack of discretion, the answer could not possibly have anything to do with the post-party events, and so he said, "I have no idea," instead of, "Some drunken groping."

"Your singing," said Glorfindel. "I have noticed that it makes the spiders hesitate, and we need them to hesitate as much as possible, tonight."

He was undeniably right: and so, Ecthelion sang. He began with his favourite epics, tales of famous battles and deeds of desperate courage, but they seemed inappropriate when desperate battle was the very thing his little group was bent on avoiding. Anyway, most of those heroic songs reminded him of the possibility of Unnatural Desire between warriors—not that he needed much of a reminder now, with the memory of walking Glorfindel home so fresh in his mind. He moved onto hymns to the Valar, but it was hard to do them justice while fighting down base thoughts about what might have happened that night, had he stayed on Glorfindel's bed a little longer. No, Ecthelion was not singing his best. Even his companions noticed.

"Try a love song," Egalmoth suggested. "That should distract us from our current predicament quite nicely."

"No." Ecthelion did some quick thinking. "Love songs would only remind me of Aredhel; after all, we are here only because she decided to go looking for love in strange places."

"Ah, but love can be such an uplifting emotion," said Egalmoth. "Still, I expect that neither of you two confirmed bachelors would understand that, right?"

Ecthelion ignored his inquisitive look and glanced around in search of inspiration. Well, there was the forest on his left, an essentially good place, shrouded in Sindarin magic. It reminded him of some of the songs he had heard in Valinor: nothing very pious, just simple Telerin tunes praising the beauty and power of nature. He started to sing one, and immediately knew that he had chosen well, for the trees seemed to change slightly to match his words, their branches extending further towards the Valley. Ecthelion's obsessive thoughts receded; he was almost sure that the spiders did likewise, their dark shapes slinking further away.

He sang all night, with only a few brief pauses. When dawn came, it revealed that the spiders were, indeed, some distance off—and also that their army was larger than ever, and that the end of the Valley was nowhere in sight. Ecthelion rubbed his throat, which was so sore that he felt just about ready to join Salgant's hoarse patrol, and tried to revive his falling spirits.

"Give your voice a rest, Ecthelion." Egalmoth handed him a water bottle. "I have just written a new song about our current situation, and I would like to hear your opinion of it." He assumed a solemn expression before launching into a rather familiar tune.

The spiders are reeking!  
They ask for a thrashing!  
They'll die with much shrieking,  
Once our blades start slashing!  
O! Tril-lil-lil-lelly,  
Giant spiders are smelly!  
Ha! Ha!

"Cheering, is it not?" he asked.

Indeed, Ecthelion had found the ditty, and the memories it evoked, oddly comforting, in spite of its awfulness. "Certainly," he said. "Our impending deaths seem a most welcome prospect, now that we can look forward to taking that song to the grave with us."

"What is more, it could come in handy in the afterlife," said Glorfindel. "I intend to sing it repeatedly when I am summoned before Mandos—that should be enough to secure me an exceptionally quick release from the Halls."

"You may have to wait a while before trying out your plan." Egalmoth was staring off into the distance. "Look straight ahead—I can see the river. We have made it! And that is not all. Ecthelion, I believe we have found your missing horse."

Ecthelion strained until he saw it too: the faint glimmer of early light on something shiny that could only be water. As they picked up the pace and drew nearer, he even noticed the familiar creature moving around near it. Soon they were fording the river, its brisk, cool waters washing off the stench of the Valley, while the spiders hung back behind, clearly unwilling to undergo the same treatment. Once on the other side, they set up a hasty camp and collapsed. They had made it, but with little strength to spare.

 

 

The following day, Ecthelion was glad mount his own horse again, in spite of the discomfort involved. He shut his eyes as he waited for the pain in his leg to fade, and so it was only when he felt an arm slip around his waist that he realized that he would be sharing his horse. With Glorfindel.

"Are we certain that this is a good idea?" Ecthelion asked the moment Egalmoth was out of earshot.

"It is the only combination that makes sense, with the other horse so tired." Glorfindel sounded incredibly close for someone whose body was in contact with Ecthelion's only at the waist. "Anyway, surely this is quite safe. What unnatural acts can we possibly commit on horseback?"

Well, there was one obvious possibility. The hand now touching Ecthelion's stomach could easily drop lower. Indeed, the distance it would have to cover decreased even as Ecthelion considered the idea. However, he could not bring himself to shatter Glorfindel's innocence by mentioning this.

It was Glorfindel who spoke first. "Never mind," he said feebly, before moving his grip from Ecthelion's waist to his shoulder. Perhaps he was not as naive as he seemed. As they rode on, Ecthelion found it very hard to get his mind off the oddly compelling idea that they had both imagined the same unnatural act at the same time. Since Egalmoth was still riding quite far ahead, he decided to distract himself by breaking the silence.

"I suppose that this is quite convenient, really. I have been meaning to speak to you privately for some time. Look, Glorfindel, is there any way you could start behaving in a more discreet fashion? All this smiling—it might give rise to suspicion."

"Do you really think so? I am not aware of any recent change in my behaviour. I have always acted warmly towards you, just as you have always been somewhat cold towards me." Glorfindel fell silent for a moment. "Were you being discreet, then? I must admit that I am still finding it rather difficult to reconcile what I thought I knew of you with recent events. I have always believed you to be above... base passions."

"Right—I believe you called me 'a natural ascetic.'" Ecthelion did not like straying from the topic at hand, but this opportunity to correct a horrible misconception was too good to miss. "Well, I told you at the time that you were quite wrong. I have my dreams, obviously. And, when awake, I feel things just like everyone else does. Possibly more strongly."

Glorfindel laughed a little. "I very much doubt that. I expect that you have no idea how bad this gets, for 'other people.' I mean, I am sure that, when you spar, you do not find yourself distracted by your opponent's body. And that you have never been struck by a sudden fantasy set somewhere inappropriate, like before Turgon's throne, or in a public fountain, or on your office table."

That last sentence, the images it evoked... Ecthelion could not think straight. He turned to his default safe emotion, annoyance. For, truly, it was incredibly irritating how completely Glorfindel underestimated his struggles.

"Actually, you are, again, quite wrong. Except, perhaps, about Turgon's throne. But definitely about the sparring, and the fountain, and especially the table. I have had all kinds of inappropriate fantasies."

"Really? Care to give me any examples?" Glorfindel's voice was very quiet; Ecthelion struggled to hear it over the clatter of the horse's hooves and the beating of his own excited heart. The soft words interwove with the underlying rhythms in a hypnotic way, like the opening phrase of a tempting new song, so that replying felt like the natural thing to do. Fortunately, Ecthelion caught himself just in time. He decided to ignore the question entirely.

"Look, Glorfindel, we cannot go on talking like this. It goes against all that is right and decent."

"How do we talk, then?"

"As we did before this trip—only, perhaps, slightly more politely, on my part. I have been thinking about what you said, back when we were discussing Fingon and Maedhros, and I agree that we might be able to derive some... inspiration from our unnatural feelings. But surely even you see that we must ignore their least natural aspects? Let us remain brothers-in-arms, caring about each other as brothers do."

"This is very important to you." Glorfindel's hand tightened on Ecthelion's shoulder. "Very well. Let us try it."

 

 

And try it they did. The nights proved slightly awkward, as Ecthelion had developed a disturbing tendency to drift to Glorfindel's side while half-asleep. He solved the problem by placing his weapons in the space between them. The small injuries he collected when dazedly attempting to embrace his own spear were a small price to pay for continued chastity.

During the daytime, in Egalmoth's presence, it was not so difficult: they were friendly towards each other, as was only right. It was the city, where they might, at times, be thrown together without an obvious chaperone, that would be the true test. When they reached the outer gate Ecthelion felt both relieved and worried.

His concern proved well founded, though for a different reason. Lord Turgon rode out to meet them at the Sixth Gate, in the very room in which Ecthelion normally spent so many of his working hours. There was no kindness in his eyes as he took in their wounds.

"Explain yourselves," he said.

Ecthelion broke the oppressive silence, and gave an account of their journey. He spoke of Doriath, of the Orc tree, and of the spiders. His words were plain; he used few adverbs or adjectives. Turgon listened intently, bidding Ecthelion go on even after he had handed over the scarf. Only when the story was over did he read Aredhel's note, going through it twice. He then stared at it for some minutes, motionless but for a small twitch in his cheek.

"Why you had to turn back, I can see," he said at last. "But I can also see why my sister wished to leave you behind. You seem to have led her along the most dangerous path in Middle-earth, and roused every creature for miles around. Again, I must ask you to explain yourselves."

So, Turgon had decided that they were at fault—but, surely, there was no reason for all three of them to suffer.

"It is entirely my doing, my lord," said Ecthelion. "I am the one who suggested that we kill the Orcs. Everything else was a direct consequence of-—"

"Ah, yes, the noble blame-taking begins." Turgon sounded very tired. "Would anyone else like to comment on Ecthelion's story?"

"Well, it is true that he was the first to express a wish to kill the Orcs," said Glorfindel. "But then he counseled against it."

"Who spoke in favour of it, then?" Turgon did not wait for an answer. "Aredhel. You blame my sister for her own fate."

"No." Glorfindel held his gaze. "I blame Morgoth."

"Yes, of course, we must always blame Morgoth for all our problems, from the deaths on the Ice to the sour taste of our local wine." Turgon spoke sharply. "But why do you accuse him in this instance? Because he is allied with the spiders? Because he marred Arda? Because it is to hide from him that we sit here, growing increasingly restless?"

"Because he killed your grandfather, and so instilled in your sister an understandable desire for vengeance."

"Understandable?" Turgon paused for a moment, before shaking his head. "I must think on this. Leave me, for now. Go to the city and seek healing, but do not assume your old duties or discuss your journey with anyone. I will summon you when I am ready."

 

 

The next few days were among the strangest of Ecthelion's life. He was not used to idleness, and yet now it was imposed upon him, both by the healers who sighed over his wounded leg, and by Turgon's words. He did have visitors, friends from the Guard who brought grapes and gossip, but their visits only reminded him of how much he missed his work—and the one friend who never stopped by.

Ecthelion supposed that it was wise of Glorfindel to avoid calling on him in his bedroom, but that did not make the absence any easier to handle. In the evenings, after the last rays of sunlight had left his rooms, draining them of colour until everything looked dull and grey, he found himself dwelling on recent Glorfindel-related events, and feeling very grateful that Eru had chosen to make memory so vivid. He even started to hope that his unnatural desires could be satisfied by just this handful of shameful recollections.

Meanwhile, the enforced inactivity still irked. Once Ecthelion's leg was well enough to walk on, he decided that, even if he could not return to his duties, he could at least make himself useful in some small way, perhaps by cleaning up his old records for the benefit of his hypothetical successor. So, he made his way to his office. Paperwork had never looked so enticing; soon he was humming, happily shuffling around little written reminders of past glory.

He was only halfway done when he was interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Come in!" he called out.

And then, just like that, Glorfindel walked into the office. Though his left arm was still in a sling, he looked quite well. In fact, he looked astoundingly wonderful, with his golden hair, broad shoulders, and warm smile. Yes, Glorfindel was definitely in Ecthelion's office. Ecthelion's brain, however, was clearly somewhere quite different, because Ecthelion's body took one look at Glorfindel, crossed the room, and kissed him.

Ecthelion's soul would definitely be spending a very long time in the Halls of Mandos.

Any hope that memory could replace reality faded the moment the kiss began. Memory, no matter how vivid, is lifeless, frozen, safe in its familiarity: reality is full of small surprises. Ecthelion had not expected Glorfindel's hair to feel so warm and heavy as it slid through his fingers, and he certainly had not expected Glorfindel to run a hand down his back, pulling their hips together, and then shift until they were aligned perfectly from the waist down. The flare of pleasure shocked Ecthelion out of his memory-related comparisons, out of all thought; he leaned into the kiss and swayed against Glorfindel, feeling the growing heat where their bodies joined. One of his hands moved in a long caress down Glorfindel's back, past the waist, pressing them closer together.

He felt lost and cheated when Glorfindel pulled away.

"I am happy to see you, too, Ecthelion," said Glorfindel, "but I thought we were supposed to act like brothers-in-arms, not like Finwian half-cousins."

Ecthelion stepped back, still a bit unsteady. "That is the last thing I need to think about right now."

"Oh, so you have imagined them, too." Glorfindel smiled dreamily. "Do you fancy yourself as Fingon, or as Maedhros? I think I am more of a Fingon type myself. I could see you as Maedhros, given your tendency to sink into guilt."

Ecthelion ignored this blathering and took his customary place behind the table in the hope that this official seat would help him regain control of the situation.

"Ah. Your table." Glorfindel was staring at the item in question.

Ecthelion felt a bit confused, until he recalled their conversation on the horse. As he looked from Glorfindel to the table and back again, he felt rather proud of himself for staying in his chair.

"Do sit down," he said, indicating a second seat.

"Good idea." Glorfindel finally met his eye. "Let us be correct and professional. This is an office, after all." After sitting down, he even reached back to bind up his hair. This helped Ecthelion focus for about two seconds, until he noticed just how well defined Glorfindel's cheekbones were. He hid his face in his hands.

"Oh, Eru. What are we going to do?"

"Think of a new plan. One that has even a small chance of working."

"Right." Ecthelion sat back up. "We will have to start avoiding each other. Now, assuming that Turgon reinstates me, I will be at the Gate one month out of three—you could probably arrange to take over one of the other shifts. And then there are valley patrols, mine inspection tours, training exercises... it should be easy enough."

"In other words, we must arrange it so that we are never in the city at the same time, ever again." Glorfindel stared at him, just stared at him, without expression. "Look, if our feelings are really so strong as to call for such desperate measures, then perhaps we should not fight against them."

"And what should we do, then, give free rein to our unnatural desires? Never. It would be wrong." It was hard to remember just how wrong, when a kiss seemed so right, but Ecthelion pressed on. "I think that recent events have skewed our perceptions of such things. Do you not remember being unhappy when you first became aware of your... leanings?"

"No, actually, they came as a bit of a relief."

"What?"

"You see, everyone had been telling me I should get married: my mother, my father, all the maidens." Glorfindel waved his hand through the air, suggesting a crowding multitude. "And married people looked so happy, I thought that there had to be some truth to it. But I had such a hard time picking a bride out of the maidens I liked—no matter whom I chose, it would have been a huge disappointment for the others. And then I started dreaming of you, and my first thought was 'Well, I can forget about getting married now, thank the Valar!'"

"Thank the Valar," said Ecthelion. "Let me just see if I have this straight: you thought that your unnatural dreams were a blessing? A ploy thought up by the Valar to protect the hearts of all those rejected maidens from such a crushing blow?"

"No, of course not. And stop doing that."

"Doing what?"

"Exaggerating my flaws in a feeble attempt to harden yourself against me." Glorfindel's self-satisfied smile lasted only a second. Then his face reddened, and Ecthelion felt his own blood run faster, knowing that, once again, they were both imagining the same compromising situation.

Glorfindel recovered first. "Truly, I was relieved. I had been aware of some lack in me all along, and I was glad to understand it at last. And it did not seem so bad: unusual, yes, but not really evil. I know we are meant to bring children into this world, but in times like these this is surely not so important. Of course, I did feel that it was wrong—"

"Exactly—"

"—to have such thoughts about someone who did not like me much."

"But now that you know I was just, how did you put it? Hardening myself against you." Ecthelion watched for the embarrassed flinch, and was impressed when it did not come. "Now you can go back to enjoying your fantasies with a clear conscience."

"And leave you alone? You give me little credit if you think that I can go on my happy way now that I know how you torment yourself." Although Glorfindel's words seemed kind, he was not smiling anymore, not with warmth and not in jest. "You see, I believe that self-loathing is far more dangerous, far more evil, than what you call 'unnatural desire.' People who often feel guilt for no reason sometimes decide that they might as well live up to it by committing evil acts."

Looking into his bright eyes, Ecthelion realized that everything that had come before this speech—the questions, the confessions, even the extended absence-—had been nothing but a series of preliminary maneuvers, executed to gather intelligence and to lull the enemy into a sense of false security. Now, here came the attack, and it was more ruthless than Ecthelion had expected.

"Are you implying that I—"

"No, of course, you are not that way. But you... you turn inward too much, turn away from others. This makes you less aware of their feelings than you otherwise might be, it makes... unpleasant misunderstandings more likely. It would be better for everyone if you stopped brooding so much, I think."

Ecthelion could remember one particular recent misunderstanding when he had unwittingly caused pain. Half-persuaded, he added 'eloquence' to his litany of Glorfindel's compelling yet hateful traits. And yet... thinking about the Incident reminded him that Glorfindel was missing the real issue. He launched his counter-attack.

"You give me too much credit," he said. "I can see that you underestimate the evil of my unnatural desires—no doubt your own are more innocent. You think the inconsiderate way I treated you was a result of my self-absorption. Perhaps you are partly right. But it was also very much a symptom of the sick passions that rule me." Ecthelion almost choked on the words, but they had to be said, even if they might drive Glorfindel away forever. Especially if they might drive Glorfindel away forever. "What if I told you that, even before that Incident, I had long wished to see you overwhelmed by pleasure against your will, acting in ways that go against your true nature?"

Glorfindel drew in a sharp breath. "Then I would tell you that your attempt to repulse me has failed. I refuse to believe that your intentions are evil. On the contrary, I have proof that you are essentially good." He gave a brief, smug smile. "I have to assume that you were thinking less than clearly when we kissed—but you never jarred my injured arm. If you instinctively refrain from hurting me where I am most vulnerable, why should I not trust you and your desires?"

This was a new idea, and one that felt like a truth; Ecthelion could think of no answer.

"And as for my own desires, they are no more innocent than yours." The light in Glorfindel's eyes was unfocused. "I want to see you lost in pleasure, too, to overthrow your reserve and your pride. Even your moral scruples."

Ecthelion tried to consider this meeting of symmetrical desires with cool rationality, but, in his overheated imagination, it seemed to turn, somehow, into the meeting of two well-matched bodies, on the sparring field or off it. He looked down at the table, ran his hands over its hard surface, and focused on the safer aspects of the metaphor. As one of the best warriors in the city, Ecthelion rarely got to fight in earnest when he trained—but Glorfindel had always had the strength and skill to meet him, to challenge him even. The thought made him feel free, somehow.

When he looked back up, there must have been some unusual intensity to his glance, for Glorfindel reacted by half-rising from his chair. His hesitation broke the spell—Ecthelion immediately remembered why it was so right to hesitate. He shook his head, trying to dispel his strange mood, and went back to the basics.

"You cannot deny," he said, "that this goes against nature, against the laws and customs of our people, against the will of the Valar."

"Yes, I can." Glorfindel sat back down. "I would argue that it clearly does not go against our own natures. It is unusual, I will grant you that—so unusual that our laws ignore it. And as for the Valar... surely they have more important things to worry about than what two guards of Gondolin do when off duty? Starting with Morgoth, and all the kinslayers, and ending with the grief in the hearts of all the little war orphans?"

It was an impressive attack. Ecthelion found himself disarmed, and searching for an alternative weapon, an argument his opponent would understand. Looking at Glorfindel's gleaming hair, he found one.

"Fine. I will accept that you feel that way. But what about all our friends, Lord Turgon, the people of the city? Public opinion matters to you—and Salgant's popular songs should give us a good clue as to what the public would think. Even if you believe that they are wrong, you cannot hope to change all their minds."

"Yes, all this does matter to me." Glorfindel glanced towards the window and the world beyond. "But surely there is no need for everyone to know. We can be discreet."

"I very much doubt that we can conceal this from everyone without lying outright. Are you willing to go that far? To learn to lie, lose your integrity? You say that self-loathing can make a person more vulnerable to evil—would you not agree that a dark secret can do the same?"

Glorfindel's confident expression wavered with every question Ecthelion threw out. "Perhaps you are right," he said, his voice as thin as a novice flautist's first notes.

Ecthelion felt no joy at this sign of surrender, only a dismal emptiness. "Then you will agree to my plan," he said, sounding almost as pathetic.

"Which plan?" Glorfindel's eyes regained some of their sparkle. "The one where we spend the rest of our lives avoiding each other? The completely impractical plan which will surely involve just as much lying as my suggestion, and which is quite unfair to me besides? That plan?"

Faced with this sudden recovery, Ecthelion felt a ridiculous urge to cheer his opponent on even as he searched for holes in his arguments. "Unfair to you? How?"

"Well, unlike you, I have never—"

Ecthelion's guilt returned in full force as he waited for the words: "I have never touched you uninvited. I see no need to avoid you." He remembered the earlier kiss, so clearly unasked for, and the Incident. His face burned.

But Glorfindel did not seem to notice, lost in thought. When he spoke again, he spoke slowly, as if each word mattered. "I have never seen you overwhelmed by pleasure, as you have certainly seen me. Thus, your actions in the shelter have placed me at a disadvantage. If we adopt your plan, that disadvantage will become permanent. As I said, this is quite unfair." He sat back. "Ecthelion, some call you 'the fairest of the Noldor.' You claim that they say this because you are just, so prove it. Give me recompense."

"How?" Ecthelion had to ask, even if he already knew.

"In kind—how else?"

"This is blackmail!"

"In what sense? You are free to refuse. Just as I was. And you want this. Just as I did." Glorfindel smiled. "The more I think about this idea, the more I like its symmetry."

Ecthelion's heart pounded. Some parts of him clearly liked the proposition at least as much as Glorfindel did. Others were screaming in outrage. "And do you suggest that we carry out this reenactment here, or were you planning to build a tree shelter in one of our public parks?"

"We can certainly do that, if you think it will help you get in the mood." Glorfindel's smile was at its most self-satisfied. "But I would prefer that we meet at a more private location. And that we wait until I have the use of both my hands."

"I knew it." Ecthelion's mind pounced on that last sentence. "You are hoping to draw me in, somehow. Impress me with your skill."

"What skill?" Glorfindel looked a little uncertain again. "Look, of course I would be very happy if this act of consummate justice 'drew you in,' but I suspect that it is more likely to make you despise me. It is just that I am tired of trying to sway you with words when it is clear that your objections run deeper, beyond the reach of reason." He untied his hair and rose from his chair. "Think about it," he said.

Ecthelion did think about it long after Glorfindel had left. In fact, he could not chase the suggestion from his mind; it felt like one of those rare occasions where duty and desire coincided.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0\. "Athrabeth Glorfindel ah Ecthelion" is Sindarin for "The Debate of Glorfindel and Ecthelion" and a pretentious reference to Tolkien's "Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth".  
> 1\. The Valley Of Dreadful Death is bordered to the West by the River Mindeb. I am assuming that the spiders are unwilling to cross this river, perhaps because they know that, in the future, many of their smaller cousins will be drowned in toilets and showers.  
> 2\. When Tuor arrives in Gondolin, Ecthelion is in charge of the Seventh Gate, the Gate of Steel. However, this gate was built by Maeglin who, at the time of this story, is not even a glimmer in Eol's eye. Instead of creating an alternative Seventh Gate (of bricks? straw? pudding?), I have moved Ecthelion to the Sixth.


	7. Only Fair

Lord Turgon's waiting room was long and narrow, perfect for nervous pacing—as Egalmoth and Glorfindel were currently demonstrating. Ecthelion watched them, surprised to see Glorfindel, usually so serene, displaying overt anxiety. He himself was not tempted to join his friends, not because he didn't fear banishment, demotion, or sewer duty, but because he was preoccupied with other matters.

Since the debate in his office, Ecthelion had made several attempts to untangle the moral implications of Glorfindel's proposal. Each time, however, he had become distracted by the same minor point: the question of exactly what a reenactment of the Incident would entail. Engrossed in perfecting an answer, he had failed to resolve his real dilemma. He had not even decided whether he would feel worse if he accepted the proposal or if he refused.

Now, as he watched Glorfindel walk back and forth with his usual grace, Ecthelion was rapidly reaching the conclusion that the reenactment was almost certain to take place, if not at some convenient time agreed upon by both parties, then at a moment of weakness. He could imagine several possible scenarios, from the aftermath of another drunken gathering to a cold night spent in the wilderness after being chased from the city. Really, banishment sounded almost appealing.

He no longer felt guilty. Like a sailor who has blundered into a storm and is buffeted about by forces beyond his control, he had no time for self-reproach. He was too busy attempting to evade disaster—to maintain an air of detachment even as Glorfindel met his eye and gave him an unsteady smile of reassurance.

When the door to the throne room finally opened, Ecthelion was the last to notice. He caught up with his friends as they filed in to stand before their lord.

Turgon barely acknowledged their bows. He spoke slowly, weighing each word. "I charged you with guarding my sister. You failed in this when you let her wander off without escort, however briefly. Your presence might have protected her not only from outside dangers, but also from the rash impulse that led her to strike out alone."

Ecthelion saw the justice of this accusation; the familiar feeling of guilt returned as he waited for the verdict. However, Turgon seemed in no hurry to deliver one. Instead, he leaned forward in his seat, as if they were in his private study and not in a formal hall.

"All three of you accompanied my family out of Valinor," he said. "You have witnessed first-hand our courage, our fortitude, our willingness to attempt the impossible. Qualities I am proud of, glad to see echoed in my people—and in my sister, who has always had them in abundance—but that, at their extreme, can lead us to take reckless, thoughtless, regrettable actions.

"However, there is no room for such behaviour in this city, where we need to temper even our valour with forbearance. That is the only way we will survive. I know that it is not easy; I can sense that many feel trapped or bored. And now..." He closed his eyes briefly. "And now my sister has departed the city, and ridden headlong into danger. What sort of example does this set for the restless youngsters?"

A bad one, certainly, but Ecthelion could not see how this was relevant.

"It will not do," said Turgon. "And so, I have decided to tell no-one of Aredhel's flight. I will expect you, as my captains, to confirm that you lost her in the Valley."

The phrase 'as my captains' leapt out at Ecthelion. It implied forgiveness, and this implication was confirmed when Turgon went on to speak about work schedules and the need to keep new recruits occupied. He did not mention Aredhel again, and it seemed that their public punishment was to consist mostly of working longer hours.

Ecthelion, who had been planning to do so anyway, if only to sort out the mess their absence had wrought, found this more than fair. And yet the thought of covering up for Aredhel disturbed him. A lie is still a lie, regardless of the motives behind it—and the benefits of this particular falsehood seemed meager. When the audience was over, he walked out of the palace in an unhappy daze.

His friends seemed to share his discontent, although for reasons of their own.

"Politics," Egalmoth said with disgust. "I suppose I would feel better about being asked to protect the tattered reputation of the Finwions from further damage if my own skills as a tracker were not being called into question."

"I am sure that something else will happen to take everyone's mind off our failures." Glorfindel sighed and readjusted his sling. "In a century or so, perhaps. In the meantime, I need a drink."

"Good idea—a drink might take our own minds off it all, at least," said Egalmoth. "Let us go to the officers' drinking hall and flaunt our newly restored positions."

They made their way across the city. Walking beside Glorfindel, Ecthelion found his newfound conviction that they would someday be committing an unnatural act irritatingly exciting. He distracted himself by analyzing the curious glances and raised eyebrows provoked by their passage, and concluded that his friends were right: public opinion had turned against them, to some degree. Still, he did not mind. All he cared about was the respect of the men of the Guard.

 

 

The drinking hall was unusually full, given the early hour, and so noisy that nobody marked their arrival. At the center of the hall stood Salgant, poised with his harp in his hand as if he had just concluded a performance. When he noticed Ecthelion's attention, he smiled in an oddly self-satisfied fashion, causing his audience to turn and notice the newcomers. The silence that descended then felt strangely abrupt and, somehow, embarrassed. Scanning the crowd, Ecthelion recognized many of Egalmoth's erstwhile guests, and even a few of his own men. Most of them seemed unwilling to meet his eye.

Such an atmosphere did not seem conducive to peaceful drinking. Still, an early departure was unthinkable; it would seem a cowardly retreat.

"You two find us a table," said Glorfindel. "I will get the drinks."

Ecthelion recognized the strained, uncertain tone as the one Glorfindel used when trying to conceal distress, and this bothered him far more than Salgant's smirk or the awkward silence. "How would you carry them all in one hand?" he asked. "I will go."

Just as he had expected, Salgant intercepted him at the bar.

"Greetings, Ecthelion," he said. "Let me get you a drink. It might help dull the memories of your frightful ordeal."

"What frightful ordeal? Oh, do not concern yourself. We were too late to hear you sing."

The words were out before Ecthelion could stop himself. Salgant's eyes widened, but a glance at his appreciative audience helped him regain his composure.

"A pity," he said. "For I would dearly like to hear your opinion of my latest composition. If I may?" Without waiting for an answer, he struck up a song. Ecthelion had no choice but to listen.

The tune was mild, inoffensive; the lyrics, meanwhile, told the story of three gay butterflies—one silver, one gold, and one multicoloured—that fell into a fluttering panic whenever they spotted a spiderweb. Ecthelion could not decide what outraged him more, the indecency of using music for such a malicious purpose, or the expectation that he would be hurt by such horribly clumsy imagery. Still, the temptation to strangle Salgant with his own harpstrings was far weaker than the less natural temptations he usually faced, and so maintaining an expression of polite interest proved rather easy.

"I do like it," he said as the final chord died away. "Perhaps because I have always enjoyed the Sindarin air it so closely resembles. Still, I can think of several improvements. If I may?"

He pulled the harp from Salgant's weak grasp and picked out a variation of the melody, a cheerier, catchier tune that soon had the audience nodding along.

"That should make those silly butterflies sound even more idiotic, which is your aim, is it not?" Ecthelion handed the harp back to a speechless Salgant and picked up the drinks. "Of course, you will do as you see fit. As for me, I will go drink to your continuing musical development."

He made for the corner where he had spotted Egalmoth's bright cloak. Several of the men he passed greeted him with cheerful respect. The change pleased him, but he forgot all about it when he reached the right table and noticed that Glorfindel was nowhere in sight.

"On the one hand, nicely done." Egalmoth took two of the drinks from his hands. "On the other hand, did you really need to make that accursed tune more memorable? Soon the whole city will be singing it."

"Well, that should please Lord Turgon. It is a song about tempering one's valour, after all." Ecthelion looked around. "What happened to Glorfindel?"

"He went home," said Egalmoth. "When Salgant started singing he said that he had to get out before he committed, if not a kinslaying, then at least a kinbeating."

"Glorfindel threatened violence? And the thought of Salgant's difficult childhood was not enough to restrain him?" Such uncharacteristic behaviour was surely evidence of great inner turmoil. Worried, Ecthelion glanced at the door through which Glorfindel had presumably departed. "Did the song really bother him so?"

"I am not sure, but Salgant's behaviour towards you certainly did. Look, Ecthelion..." Egalmoth looked ill at ease, as if he were about to ask for a loan. "Look, Ecthelion, is there anything going on between you two?"

The room darkened as all the blood left Ecthelion's head. "No." Although his vision was hazy, he glared in Egalmoth's direction, hoping to lend additional emphasis to his forceful words. "No, there is not."

Egalmoth shook his head. "Bad answer."

"What are you talking about?"

"That is a much better answer, although you might try to show even more confusion." Egalmoth looked down into his cups. "Not that I think anyone else is likely to ask, but..."

Ecthelion understood then that Egalmoth knew, and steeled himself to a face a comrade's disgust. "I am sorry," he said, feeling inadequate.

"You should be. Such a fine piece of gossip, and I cannot share it—it nearly breaks my heart. But never mind. Maybe now I can finally get some attention from the maidens."

Although he spoke lightly, Egalmoth could not meet Ecthelion's eye. Still, Ecthelion felt deeply touched by this awkward affirmation of friendship and discretion. And, at the same time, very determined to change the subject. He sat down.

"Do you have any particular maiden in mind?" he asked.

"Not yet." Egalmoth sent Ecthelion a grateful smile. "But it should be easy to find one. All I require in a woman is that she be beautiful, stylish, and easily impressed. Do you have any suggestions?"

They discussed the matter at length. As they spoke, much of the tension seemed to dissipate, so that they were able to finish their drinks without discomfort.

 

 

It was only afterwards, when he was walking through the city once more, that Ecthelion began to wonder about the nature of the suspicions he had implicitly confirmed. He soon developed the disturbing impression that Egalmoth's conjectures about What Was Going On were far more solid than his own. All Ecthelion had were scraps: an intense, mutual, unnatural attraction; Glorfindel's theories about the inspiring power of such passions; the way the two of them fought together, as if every move were part of a practiced dance; and that new awareness of a strength that matched his own. Oh, and his guilt, of course. But what did it all add up to?

Ecthelion suppressed a ridiculous impulse to run back and ask Egalmoth for an explanation. Instead, he paused, and noticed where he was headed: towards Glorfindel's house. He hesitated, but, recalling Glorfindel's distress, did not turn back.

He dragged his stiff leg up the familiar staircase, one step at a time. At the top, he paused, resting—and listening to the strange scraping noises coming through the door. When he knocked, there was no answering call of, "Come in!" Instead, after a few moments, the door swung open.

"Ecthelion." Glorfindel leaned against the frame. "I heard you on the stairs."

"I heard you moving about inside." Ecthelion took in Glorfindel's clothes, which were slightly askew, and frowned. "What were you doing? Rearranging the furniture?"

"Yes, some of it. I had been practicing my swordplay—it always clears my head—but when I realized that you were coming by to cheer me up, I decided to tidy the place. And myself." Glorfindel brushed at his cheek, dislodging a damp strand of hair, and straightened his tunic. "Whatever you do, do not look under the bed. Now, what brings you here?"

"As you seem all too aware, I wanted to cheer you up."

Glorfindel's nonchalance vanished, replaced by surprise. "Ecthelion, I was only joking." He smiled brightly. "Anyway, you have already succeeded."

"Oh." The sincerity of that statement was undeniable, as was the effort Glorfindel had gone to on the behalf of his visitor. Ecthelion became aware of the importance he held—had long held—in these rooms. The feeling was intoxicating. Everything wobbled slightly; even Glorfindel seemed to sway towards him. Ecthelion closed his eyes. When he opened them, Glorfindel was gone from the door and walking towards a large chest. The mute departure felt like a dismissal, both of Ecthelion and of his absurd flight of fancy.

"Should I leave, then, seeing as my task is done?" asked Ecthelion.

"No." Glorfindel rummaged around in the chest, eventually extracting a bottle. "You should stay and have some wine."

He poured it out one-handed, head bent so that his hair fell forward. Seeking to distract himself from its treacherous brightness, Ecthelion accepted a glass and took a long sip. The wine was smooth, easy to drink, but strong; Glorfindel looked slightly flushed already. Fine, potent wine and privacy in an empty room. A risky combination. Ecthelion put his glass down.

"Look, let us be honest with each other. If I stay and drink, we will end up doing our reenactment sooner than we had expected."

"I do not plan to drink much. It is just that..." Glorfindel carefully swirled his wine. "I need a reasonable way of occupying my hand and mouth. I almost had a Finwian cousin moment, there at the door. And I need to talk to you."

Perhaps Glorfindel's high colour was not caused by the alcohol, after all. At any rate, no glass of wine, no matter how strong, could possibly prove as dangerous as that little confession. Ecthelion had to escape. "You can talk to me at work. I will return here when your arm is better, as we planned."

Glorfindel shook his head. "I need to talk to you in private. I have been thinking... Perhaps you were right, when we spoke in your office. Public opinion is a powerful force. Public censure..." He drank deeply, and grimaced. "I have had some small taste of it, lately, and I find it quite bitter."

Ecthelion felt astounded. By Glorfindel's reversal, certainly, but also by his unworthy sentiments. "You are being ridiculous," he said. "What was it that you told me about self-pity? Why are you so oversensitive to the disapproval of strangers?"

"Oh, am I? Or do you only think so because you yourself are immune to all disapproval, having inoculated yourself against it with your endless self-chastisement? But even you would hate it, I think, if Salgant were to immortalize us in one of his songs."

"One about Ecthelion and Glorfindel and their dueling swords?" Ecthelion had to smile, both at the idea and at Glorfindel's reaction to it: a shuddering breath drawn through parted lips. It felt so strange to watch someone else struggle with conflicting impulses. Strange, and exciting, to know that he was the cause. He reminded himself that Glorfindel's new attitude was the right one—even if his reasons for adopting it were infuriatingly wrong and would have to be overturned.

"Look here," he said. "We both know that Salgant lied in order to get out of escorting Aredhel. He has the courage of a paper soldier and the integrity of a wet piece of paper. How can you let the malicious actions of such a person affect you? How can you care more about his ignorant beliefs than about the promptings of your own conscience? How can you... diminish yourself so?"

Glorfindel stared at him, seemingly enthralled by the self-righteous outburst. Then he shook his head, as if to clear it. "No. Salgant is not the real problem, and you know it; you were the one who first brought up the question of public opinion."

Ecthelion decided to be honest. "Yes, but I only did so because I was trying to put you off by using your weaknesses against you."

"That was not very fair of you."

"What are you going to do, demand recompense?"

That last, evocative word hung in the air between them, forcing Ecthelion to see the situation clearly. "Glorfindel, this debate is pointless. Why fear for your reputation when all that is at stake is a single reenactment? How could anyone make anything of the fact that we met in private one time, exactly as we are doing now?"

"Exactly as..." Glorfindel looked around the room. "You are right. After all, it is to be just the once, is it not?"

He spoke as if stating a new notion, one that he could not quite accept. Ecthelion felt a rush of sympathy: no, of empathy, or worse, for he realized that he himself had not quite accepted the reenactment's finality, either.

"Right, it is just the once." At least he sounded as if he believed it.

"Just the once, then." Glorfindel put down his glass and glanced towards the inner room. "I thought we could use my bed as the shelter. My sheets are the right colour."

Yes, this was what the discussion had been about all along, under all the unnecessary words: not about virtue, or reputation, or some future act of atonement, but about their shared longing, and the possibility of its imminent satisfaction. Ecthelion felt the vague dread that it would all soon be over sharpen and solidify until it felt like there was a small weapon lodged just below his heart. Still, he resolved to copy Glorfindel's nonchalance.

"Sounds reasonable," he said before walking over to the bed. Suppressing a ridiculous impulse to look under it, he lay down. "All right. I am Glorfindel of the Golden Flower."

The mattress was more comfortable than his own. It gave way slightly as Glorfindel sat down beside him; when their eyes met, something seemed to give way inside Ecthelion's head. If this really was a one-time occurrence, then he would do it properly.

"Wait a moment," he said. He removed the clasps from his hair, combing it out to spill over the pillows. "Now, I am Glorfindel."

Glorfindel's eyes brightened with delight. His hand moved to trace the small waves left behind by tight braids. Ecthelion disliked that effect, disliked the way it made him look: like a fragile, decorative minstrel. He shifted slightly, so that the hair slid out of Glorfindel's reach.

Glorfindel laughed. "Be like that, then. Just keep in mind that, in a moment, I will be touching more than your hair."

It was odd how a show of confidence could affect Ecthelion just as much as a show of vulnerability. He suppressed a shiver and glanced at Glorfindel's hands, frowning as he noticed the sling.

"Yes, it is a bit of a problem," said Glorfindel. "Don't you now wish we knew the words to that 'Where Is His Other Hand' song? Well, we will have to make do. You had better sit up. And help me with your clothes."

Ecthelion obeyed. He sat up against the head of the bed and shifted his garments just as he had done for Glorfindel in the shelter: raising his shirt and pushing down his trousers. When the cold air hit his skin, he felt a strange tug at his pride. It felt odd to be bared in such an unusual way, as if for no purpose other than to expose need. He looked up with defiance, but Glorfindel did not notice; his eyes were sliding up and down Ecthelion's body. His hand followed, brushing across Ecthelion's chest, then down along his hip and thigh. Ecthelion was not sure whether he wanted to flinch away or push forward but, either way, it was a struggle to stay still and composed under the unaccustomed touch.

"I never did that," he said.

"Right. I forgot: since I am Ecthelion, I am supposed to be as efficient and impersonal as possible." Glorfindel shifted a bit closer, his fingers drifting back up to trace Ecthelion's jaw. "I cannot even kiss you."

Ecthelion looked away. Guilt burned deep within him, threatening to overwhelm desire. He had just opened his mouth—to explain, to apologize again—when Glorfindel kissed him and took him in hand all at once.

It was the kiss that ensured Ecthelion's defeat. While imagining this situation, he had pictured Glorfindel watching him, looking for small signs of pleasure that, to Ecthelion's humiliation, would slip past his iron control. He had not expected this tactic, an attack on two fronts; he had marshaled his forces all wrong. The result was an utter rout.

Within seconds, Ecthelion was shocked to hear himself moaning into Glorfindel's warm mouth, to feel his body rocking to meet Glorfindel's hand. He could remember that, during the Incident, Glorfindel had held tensely still, but he did not care. Instead of keeping his arms by his sides, as Glorfindel had done, he wrapped them around Glorfindel, running his fingers over smooth hair and taut muscle, drawing him closer.

Then Glorfindel paused. "Wait, this is not quite right."

For a moment, Ecthelion feared that this was a comment on his lack of restraint. He froze, trying to gather enough of his wits to promise to do better in the future. But Glorfindel was not so petty: he kissed Ecthelion again almost at once. He had changed his grip slightly. The new motion of his hand felt easier, somehow, more familiar; it was the motion Ecthelion had used in the shelter. As he wondered at Glorfindel's subtlety, Ecthelion realized that he was, once more, capable of coherent thought. Perhaps it was because a known attack is far easier to defend against; or perhaps it was because the small arrowhead of dread was now pressing against Ecthelion's heart, reminding him that this would end soon, and end forever. He had to act.

He leaned forward and tried to maintain the kiss as his hands groped blindly, slipping along the sheets until they reached Glorfindel's thigh and traced it to its source. The resulting groan distracted him, reminded him that his was not the only will in the room. He decided to make sure that his behaviour was truly welcome. His lips sought Glorfindel's ear.

"Is this—"

"Yes!"

Glorfindel sounded impatient and hoarse. Perhaps they had a single will after all. As in battle, they moved in harmony, sliding down and rearranging themselves on the bed so that they could press together and feel pleasure without pain. Ecthelion balanced on one elbow, his fingers brushing Glorfindel's face, and saw his own need echoed in those green-grey eyes. Below, their hands were moving in unison, so that it was difficult to remember whose hand was whose. It did not really matter. What mattered was that this was no fantasy, that he was not alone, that if he kissed Glorfindel hard enough to hurt he would feel his kiss returned, just as desperately. And that it all brought such pleasure. The rush of blood to his head felt like a triumphant march as he came.

 

 

Ecthelion usually thought of a climax as a dark doorway, one that took him from a desperate place filled with lustful imaginings to one of unclean shame and utter loneliness. This time, however, he found himself somewhere new. As his head came to a natural rest on Glorfindel's good shoulder, he wanted to laugh with giddy relief. Instead, he lay silent and listened to Glorfindel's slowing heart.

"Do you realize what you have just done?" When Glorfindel spoke, Ecthelion could feel breath in his hair and deep vibration in the chest beneath his ear. "You have unbalanced the situation again."

"That was my intention, yes." Ecthelion heard Glorfindel's heart rate speed up at this declaration and smiled.

A few moments passed.

"You do not regret it now?" Glorfindel asked carefully.

"No. Not now. But I am sure that I will regret it—perhaps not all the time, but on occasion."

He felt Glorfindel's arm tighten across his shoulders. "I am so glad to hear you say that. Not that you will experience regret, but that you will... Oh, you know what I mean."

"I do." Ecthelion's hand moved up and down Glorfindel's body in a stealthy caress. "But what about public censure?"

"I shall do my best not to... diminish myself by fearing it. Doing so should be easy enough while in your presence, given that it tends to affect me in the opposite way."

Ecthelion groaned. "Glorfindel, that joke—"

"Ah, but it is no joke."

Indeed, Ecthelion could feel that it wasn't, just as he could feel his own hunger returning. This time, it would be less desperate; he would be able to savour the experience.

He sat up and stripped quickly before turning to help Glorfindel do the same. The sling made this simple task rather complicated, especially for two people who were far more interested in touching each other, in exploring the warmth and texture of bare skin, than in solving a logic puzzle. In the end, they simply removed it along with the clothes, until Glorfindel was left with only the dressing on his shoulder. As Ecthelion took in his golden skin and hair, luminous in the fading light, his heart clenched at the familiar sight.

This was where they had sat after Egalmoth's party. So much had changed since then. Or had it? He had learned that his desires were returned, yes, so that his perception of the situation had certainly changed, but what of its intrinsic immorality?

"Ecthelion?" Glorfindel touched his arm.

This, too, echoed what had happened then. There was only one great difference: this time, he had fallen. Even worse, he had made an implicit promise to fall again. And not in a moment of frantic desire, but in a moment of deeper weakness. He had been right to fear the insidious softer emotions. They were the thread that could link aberrant incidents together, make them part of the fabric of life.

"Ecthelion, no. Do not sink into regret." Glorfindel's face was set now, his back straighter, so that his nudity seemed more natural than seductive, as if he were sitting on a bench in the baths. "Be practical. Think of all the virtues you have cultivated to compensate for your flaws. If they are not enough, well, then, think of what a positive influence you can have on me. Think of all the good we can do together, when we stop wallowing in repressed desire like a pair of young recruits. Think of the good of the city."

Ecthelion shut his eyes. Really, Glorfindel's strange logic made him as dizzy as Glorfindel's touch. "Are you suggesting that, by repeatedly giving in to our unnatural longings, we would be sacrificing our souls for the good of Gondolin?"

"I was not, but now that you have said it—is that not something you would gladly do?"

Of course it was. But how much could two people—two fine warriors, even—really do for a city? Inspiring each other during sparring sessions somehow did not feel like enough. They would have to attempt something greater.

When the idea came into Ecthelion's head, it did not feel like inspiration, but like recognition: yes, here is one thing we could do better than anyone else.

"You know, Glorfindel," he said, "I have been thinking that we should have brought some of those spiders back with us."

"As have I. I rather liked the effects of their venom."

Glorfindel's comment was little more than a mutter. Ecthelion decided to ignore it and press on.

"I thought that we could breed them and use them to train the men in spider slaying. After all, while Egalmoth's Spider-slaying Ditty is certainly memorable, it is sadly inadequate as teaching material. But here is an alternative suggestion—I think we should teach ourselves to wield the weapons of the enemy. Whips, troll clubs, flails that mimic spider claws..."

"Right." Glorfindel was nodding, intent. "That way we can train ourselves—and others—how to best fight against them. It is certain to help the city, sooner or later; and then people might be willing to forgive us a few vices. And then, of course, such a shared project would provide us with an opportunity to spend a lot of time together." He looked at Ecthelion questioningly.

"True." Ecthelion took a deep breath. Yes, he could live with this situation, no matter how flawed and strange. At that moment, it did not feel any worse than going along with Turgon's deception. "It would give us an unshakable excuse."

Glorfindel smiled. "Wait." He got up and walked back to the other room.

Ecthelion watched him, just as he had done while waiting for the audience earlier that day. The growing awareness that, this time, he did not have to restrain himself made him feel like singing. He lay back, and worked on his balance of virtue by refraining from looking under the bed until Glorfindel returned with the wine glasses, still half-full.

They drank a wordless toast to something neither of them would name, and kissed to taste the wine on each other's lips—and then again, for no reason, pressing together to feel skin against skin for the first time.

"You know," said Glorfindel a few minutes later, "I have a suggestion, too, and coincidentally it is also spider-inspired. Do you remember how, when I got my spider bite, you—"

"Yes." Ecthelion touched the healing scar on Glorfindel's thigh. "I already thought of that—I do intend to brush up on my first-aid techniques."

"Good idea, but what I had in mind was quite different: another reenactment. Here, come sit on the edge of the bed—imagine that it is a spider corpse. You can be me again. I, meanwhile..." Glorfindel slid to the floor and placed his hand on Ecthelion's knee. "I have wanted to try this for... a rather long time."

"So have I." Ecthelion could barely get the words out as he looked down at this scene from dream and fantasy, deeply impressed by the cool courage with which Glorfindel faced the unfamiliar. He reached out to touch him, then stopped himself.

"Your hair. May I—"

Glorfindel said nothing. He simply took Ecthelion's hand and tangled it in the hair at the back of his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0\. I did not think this would need saying, but some of my reviews suggest that it does: I do not believe that there is anything particularly unnatural about Ecthelion's desires. I do not even agree with Glorfindel's idea that they can compensate for their vice by being extra virtuous, because I do not see said desires as a vice. (Glorfindel's vanity and Ecthelion's obsessive introspection, on the other hand...)  
> 1\. I do so love to get comments. Compliments, certainly, but constructive criticism as well.  
> 2\. I adore all my helpful critics. Maggie, Lyllyn, AfterEver, Earmire, Marnie, Dragonlady7, Elvinesse, Squirrel—thanks for commenting at HASA. Thanks also to all my ffn reviewers, especially to Ninmen, who pointed out a canon mistake.


	8. EXTRAS -- NOT AN ACTUAL CHAPTER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As I have tried to make clear, this is not an actual chapter. This is just a mess of random bits and pieces, meant to resemble the Extras section of a DVD. (Although, obviously, rather different in format.) The Extras include: a fic summary, the full text of both the Orc-Slaying and the Spider-Slaying Ditty, and a few (hopefully) interesting links.
> 
> I do know that putting this up here is rather self-indulgent. I only hope that it is somewhat amusing, to my less discerning readers, at least.

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THE EVIL-SLAYING DITTIES OF THE GONDOLINDRIM  
\-----

Here are the full versions of both the songs, which I judged to be both too long and too gory for the actual fic.

The Orc-Slaying Ditty

Our arrows are flying,  
Our swords brightly glowing.  
The Orcs are all dying!  
Their black blood is flowing!  
O! Tril-lil-lil-leelly,  
Their blood's flowing freely!  
Ha! Ha!

The orcs are all dropping!  
Once their blood starts gushing,  
Orc limbs need some chopping,  
Orc heads need some crushing!  
O! Tril-lil-lil-lelly,  
Their brains turn to jelly!  
Ha! Ha!

Oh, we love patrolling!  
Oh, truly 'tis thrilling,  
When orc heads are rolling!  
No joy like orc-killing!  
O! Tril-lil-lil-lolly,  
To slay orcs is jolly!  
Ha! Ha!

 

The Spider-Slaying Ditty

(As composed by Egalmoth of the Heavenly Arch, who never gets the credit he deserves.)

 

The spiders are reeking!  
They beg for a thrashing!  
They'll die with much shrieking,  
Once our blades start slashing!  
O! Tril-lil-lil-lelly,  
Giant spiders are smelly!  
Ha! Ha!

Our bright blades are stabbing!  
The spiders -- expiring!  
This feinting and jabbing,  
I find it quite tiring!  
O! Tril-lil-lil-lally,  
Down there in the valley!  
Ha! Ha!

The spiders are dying,  
And still they keep stinking!  
It's really quite trying,  
I'd rather be drinking!  
O! Tril-lil-lil-lilly,  
This song is quite silly!  
Ha! Ha!

 

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FLAWED AND FAIR: CLIFFS NOTES VERSION  
\-----

Here is a concise summary of the fic, written for those who do not wish to struggle through thousands of words to get at the smut. (Which, incidentally, can be found in chapters five and seven.) Or, perhaps, for those who cannot read the Glorfindel subtext.

 

**Chapter One: Introduction**

Ecthelion: Woe is me! I hate myself, for I have Unnatural Desires. And inappropriate dreams about Glorfindel.

Glorfindel: I just thought I'd pop by and tell Ecthelion that I have lustful thoughts and dreams. Not sure why, really.

Ecthelion: *Is too busy staring at Glorfindel's hair to hear him.*

Captain Elemmakil aka Exposition: Aredhel is planning to leave the city; Glorfindel is to go with her.

 

**Chapter Two: Cliche Alcohol-Related Fumbling Scene**

Egalmoth: I am to be the second member of Aredhel's escort. Let's have a party.

Partygoers: *Drink, sing, etc.*

Glorfindel: I am going to miss Ecthelion. *Drinks.*

Ecthelion: Glorfindel is drunk. It is surely my duty to take him home.

Glorfindel: Wow, Ecthelion looks very attractive. I think I will take off my clothes and start rubbing his shoulder in a suggestive manner.

Ecthelion: I hate myself for desiring someone who is not only male and sloshed, but also completely uninterested in me.

Sergeant Exposition: Hey, Ecthelion, you are going with Aredhel, too.

 

**Chapter Three: Plot and Pretentiousness**

Glorfindel (blushing): Um, Ecthelion, about last night... Did anything happen?

Ecthelion: No.

Glorfindel: Damn.

Aredhel and her escort: *Leave Gondolin.*

Aredhel: Obey me, oh lesser beings, for I am Finwe's grandchild. We will ride to Himland, through Doriath.

The Elves Of Doriath: No you won't, not if you want to visit a Feanorian. *Spit.*

Aredhel: Fine. We will ride to Himland, through the Valley Of Dreadful Death. Ooh, I can't wait to kill something, preferably a spider.

Glorfindel (irrelevantly): I think that love between two warriors can be a beautiful thing -- it is a pity that Ecthelion thinks it is hideous and obscene. But I do hope that he is impressed by how patient I am around the most irritating woman on Arda.

Ecthelion: Glorfindel is clearly in love with Aredhel. I hate myself for minding.

 

**Chapter Four: Mostly Action**

Everyone: *Fights some orcs.*

Ecthelion: *Has a dream that rather defies summary.*

Aredhel: I have a great idea! Let us go annoy some giant spiders.

Everyone: *Fights some giant spiders.*

Ecthelion: This chapter is kind of boring and lacking in slash. Glorfindel, why don't you give me a backrub?

Glorfindel: Good idea. Incidentally, I am not in love with Aredhel. And I think you are the most attractive person I know.

Ecthelion: *Remains oblivious.*

Everyone watching this, including the giant spiders: *Is starting to find his obliviousness irksome.*

 

**Chapter Five: Cliche Fake-Dream Scene**

Aredhel: My guards seem to be on the verge of dragging me back to Gondolin in a sack. I think I will take one of our two remaining horses and leave.

Everyone else: *Is too busy fighting spiders to follow.*

Ecthelion: My first-aid techniques leave much to be desired. *Falls over.*

Glorfindel: *Drags Ecthelion into a secluded shelter.* You know, I have been obsessed with you since the Ice.

Ecthelion (oblivious as ever): What an interesting dream! *Fondles Glorfindel.*

Glorfindel: Woohoo! And yet -- hasty, impersonal pity-sex is not exactly what I had in mind. I am so embarrassed now.

Everyone: *Follows Aredhel, fights spiders.*

Egalmoth: *Conveniently disappears.*

Ecthelion: *Gets a clue.* Glorfindel, I am sorry I molested you.

Glorfindel: That's fine -- those were the best three minutes of my life.

Ecthelion and Glorfindel: *Kiss.*

Lurking spiders: Aaaaw. Cute. *Cuddle*

 

**Chapter Six: Lots of Talking**

Spiders: *Lurk.*

Ecthelion and Egalmoth: *Sing.*

Spiders: *Lurk less.*

Ecthelion: Glorfindel, I think you and I should just be friends.

Glorfindel: Um, okay. Like that will last.

The three guards: *Arrive in Gondolin.*

Turgon: I am very angry with you. Leave me, for now.

Ecthelion: *Kisses Glorfindel.* Oh, that was so wrong. We must never speak to each other again. No, I will not be swayed by logic.

Glorfindel: That works out fine -- I am the least logical person I know. For one, I believe that being gay will prevent me from rejecting women. I also believe that you owe me something for giving me the best three minutes of my life.

 

**Chapter Seven: More Talking, but also Smut**

Turgon: Go about your work, you three, while I force this fic to be consistent with the Silmarillion.

Salgant: Oh, look at the three great warriors who are scared of spiders! *Sings.*

Ecthelion: *Channels his inner Bitchy Gay Artist.*

Glorfindel: I am worried that sleeping together will ruin our reputations.

Ecthelion: That is so wrong, because--

Glorfindel: Ah! You have convinced me! Let's have sex.

Ecthelion and Glorfindel: *Have sex.*

Ecthelion: Oh Eru! What have I done?

Glorfindel: Allow me to distract you from your internalized homophobia with more bad logic. For example, did you realize that having more sex will help us defend at the city?

Ecthelion: Yes! And make us better at slaying Balrogs!

Curtain: *Falls on weird hair fetish scene.*

**Author's Note:**

> 0\. I originally wrote this story in early 2004. Wow, these Elves have been living in my head for quite a while! I am posting it here now because this has clearly become the best archive.  
> 1\. I want to assure everyone that the puns/misspellings were hilarious in Sindarin.  
> 2\. The much-mentioned Lorien is, of course, the Vala of dreams.


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